A More Worldly Man
by Lomonaaeren
Summary: Post DH, HPDM slash. Sequel to An Alchemical Discontent. Harry and Draco are finally, slowly, coming together, but the aftermath of Draco’s freedom is nightmares, legal challenges, and dangerous political pressure in the form of Charlemagne Diggory.
1. Over the Edge

**Title: **A More Worldly Man

**Disclaimer: **J. K. Rowling and associates own these characters. I am writing this for fun and not profit.

**Pairing: **Harry/Draco.

**Warnings: DH Spoilers, not epilogue-compliant. **Profanity, language, violence and torture (mostly remembered), sex.

**Rating: **R/M.

**Summary: **Sequel to _An Alchemical Discontent. _Harry and Draco are finally, slowly, coming together, but the aftermath of Draco's freedom is nightmares, legal challenges, and dangerous political pressure in the form of Charlemagne Diggory.

**Author's Notes: **Last story in a trilogy called the Intellectual Love Affair series. This story won't make much sense if read without the first two. Also, there are certain parts of this story you may want to skim if you have a weak stomach—namely, those containing memories of Draco's torture by Daphne Greengrass.

**A More Worldly Man**

_Chapter One—Over the Edge_

He was lying still. He didn't want to do so, but he couldn't move. His muscles strained and flexed uselessly against invisible bonds. The sound of his breathing rushed in his ears, but outside of that, all was silence. Perhaps she had left. He wished he could think that, but the moment he began to seriously consider the possibility, the flat of a cold, sharp blade settled in the middle of his back.

Draco shuddered and barely restrained himself from a miserable groan. _Of course. _Daphne was a Legilimens. She'd probably read the desire out of his head, even restrained herself until he started really believing in his solitude, and only then moved in. She did love to crumple hope like a piece of tissue.

The knife trailed its way slowly across his back, denting and dimpling the skin but never causing more than slight pain. Draco opened his eyes wide—he'd had them shut until then, hoping he could make his suffering less real by refusing to see it—but only darkness answered his questing gaze. It might have been a blindfold or a blinding charm. Daphne was so good with both that Draco found it impossible to tell the difference.

And he had been the one who had put himself into this situation, he remembered, bitterly and yet again, via his own overconfidence that he could make Daphne stop playing with him at any time. He should have remembered how eager she had been to treat him as a toy when they had their first affair. She was stronger magically than he was, and had a vital sexual interest in him; of course he could not put her off like a child who wanted to play with him.

The knife rested at the top of his buttocks now. Draco knew what came next; in an odd way, he felt as if he had lived through this once already, though Daphne used Memory Charms to keep him from remembering the results of her little games. He shivered and tried as best he could to relax, frustrated that he could not make his muscles respond all the way with a simple command. Had she used magic to make them harder to relax, too?

Then he told himself that she would love such uncertainty about how much control he had over his own body, and it would give her a greater hold on him. He must not succumb to it.

The knife edged further down his arse now, still only dimpling the skin, still not _quite _making it bleed. Draco was shuddering so hard that he wondered if Daphne would cut him accidentally. But no, she probably had too much control of the blade for that.

Oh, God, he didn't _like _this.

_Of course you don't, it's not as though you chose it, _Draco tried to reply scornfully to his own fears, but he couldn't maintain the scorn. He was shaking too hard with revulsion. He'd been with men. It wasn't as though he feared something going up his arse. But this, this was _different—_

Daphne paused, and then drove the knife forward, hard, into his rectum, the blade slipping in with a speed that made the contrast with the gentle teasing that had come before all the worse. Draco forgot the multiple promises he had made himself when she first bound him to the bed, and opened his mouth, the scream leaving his body as the knife entered it.

* * *

Harry woke with a jolt, hearing Draco's voice rip across his ears like a sudden shout of _Sectumsempra!_ He was on his feet with his wand drawn before his mind caught up with his body, and he realized that Draco lay shaking in his bed, tears pouring down his face, his mouth opening in another scream, this one soundless.

Harry promptly dropped his wand and reached across the hospital bed to gather Draco up into his arms. He had nothing fastened to him, no tubes for feeding or giving blood or drugs the way there would have been in Muggle hospital. The Healers had examined him carefully, fed him a few potions, removed some spells and curses they'd found intertwined with his nervous system and his digestive system, and told Harry the major problem would be dealing with the trauma of the recovered memories. They would send a Mind-Healer to talk to Draco tomorrow.

For now, Harry could do nothing but wish the nightmares away.

_Well, that's not true, _he thought, as he locked his arms around Draco's chest and waist and kept his limbs from thrashing. _I can hold him, give him my warmth, let him know the dreams aren't real. I can be here for him, the way he was there for me right after Daphne got—eaten._

"It's all right," he said, wishing he had better words to speak. Then again, the Healers had told him the tone of the voice, the sense of someone's comforting presence, was often more important for a patient in Draco's position than the words themselves. "Draco, I promise, I'm here, and it's all right, and she's gone, she's a Squib, I won't leave you. You'll never be at her mercy again." He used his right hand briefly to smooth some sweat-soaked hair from Draco's brow, but had to bring it down again as Draco flexed helplessly the way he might in bonds and nearly tore away from Harry's grip.

Draco jolted once more, then came fully back to consciousness. Harry knew the moment he did. He could feel the sweep of Draco's lashes against his cheek as Draco shut his eyes, and he said, in a low voice, "I fucking hate this."

"Waking up in my arms?" Harry kept his voice light and teasing, to show he took no offense. His right hand was moving up and down on Draco's back, rucking up the hospital gown as he stroked his spine. The mediwitches had seemed a little shocked when Harry, no relative of Draco's, had said he would stay with him during the night and provide warmth and comfort if he needed to be held, but it was none of their business. _Until the _Prophet _breaks the story, anyway._ "Or wearing clothes that display no sense of fashion?"

"I hate screaming like that," Draco whispered. "I'm weak. I sound weak. You must think I'm weak."

"Why don't you let me think my own thoughts, and then tell you what they are?" Harry hummed into his ear. Draco tensed one more time, then released his breath across Harry's ear with a great, shuddering sigh.

"You're about to say that you don't think I'm weak, aren't you," he said, sounding more resigned than angry.

"I don't think that, because you _aren't._" Harry tightened his hold and rocked Draco a little. His back was beginning to hurt, leaning over the bed like this, but he felt he could keep it up for as long as Draco needed it. "You made a mistake, yes, but that makes you mistaken, not weak. And then you suffered, through no fault of your own. You didn't _choose _this, Draco. It wasn't your fault." The Healers had told Harry some self-blame was usual after an experience like this—the one piece of their advice he'd been able to anticipate for certain beforehand. He knew all too well what it felt like to have something awful happen to you and be sure you could have prevented it if only you were stronger.

"I _want _to think like that," Draco whispered. "But then I remember not being able to stop her. She just—tied me down and did whatever she wanted to me."

"I know," Harry whispered back. He didn't ask for details of the nightmares. Those were Draco's to share if he wished. Harry would demand them only if he thought they were poisoning Draco, with as much silence as he was preserving on the subject. "You didn't choose this. This isn't your fault."

Draco stayed silent for some time. Harry went on rocking him. The motion was soothing to him, too, and helped work out the aches he felt in his neck and shoulders; he'd fallen asleep in the chair beside Draco's bed.

"You'll get tired of saying that soon," Draco said, with an oddly tentative note in his voice. Harry was glad to hear it. Scorn or resignation, though understandable as defenses for Draco's broken pride, would have hurt Harry in turn; it would have been harder to think they weren't really the truth.

"I won't," Harry said. "_You_ might, and then I'll change the words to something else, equally soothing."

"I won't get tired of them," Draco said, and then his arms clasped around Harry and squeezed with unexpected strength. "I don't—change that easily. Not towards someone who's done what you've done for me. Just—stay here and don't go anywhere. Don't change on me, all right?"

"All right," Harry breathed back.

And so they stayed still, the whirling, bubbling cauldron of Harry's mind paused, for just a few moments, by the presence of the man he was beginning to be certain he loved.

* * *

Draco glanced up as the door opened, ready to complain to Harry about the fact that the mediwitch who'd brought his lunch tray actually expected him to eat watery soup and stringy vegetables. But instead of Harry, it was Granger who stepped into his room, her eyes hard and bright as nails.

She shut the door carefully behind her, but, thankfully, cast no spell that would hold it shut or prevent anyone from entering. Draco didn't feel up to being confined in small spaces alone with magically powerful women at the moment.

Even less did he want Granger to start knowing that, however, so he forced himself to pick up a forkful of chicken and eat it with something approaching resignation. The chicken crunched so hard in his mouth he nearly choked. It _looked _more appetizing than the rest of the food, but the skin stuck him in odd places on his gums and palate, and a baby house-elf could have cooked softer meat.

Feeling stronger with the irritation running through him, Draco laid down his fork and faced Granger. "Well?" he asked. "I presume you've come to give me the details about Daphne. Harry said you'd taken care of her, but he wouldn't tell me how." Harry was being extraordinarily careful with his references to Daphne in front of Draco, and even, it seemed, with words that sounded like her name. Did he _really _think Draco would snap the moment he heard about her? But, on the other hand, Draco had to appreciate the concern Harry's caution reflected.

"I used a Memory Charm on her," Granger said. "After using Legilimency on her first, to see how resistant she was and how powerful I'd need to make the spell." A hard little smile played about Granger's lips. "Not at all powerful, as it turned out. With the loss of her magic, she'd lost most of the protections on her mind."

_See?_ Draco reminded himself yet again. _Harry took her magic away from her, and that's the reason she was able to hurt you. Not her money or her connections in the Muggle world. So the danger really is past, because she won't ever be able to blindfold and gag you again. With a wand, you're stronger than she is even cornered._

"So we Obliviated her, and then I found the Muggle documents she had in her house and placed her safely with the people who know her in the Muggle world." Granger shrugged a little. "They just think she's had some kind of trauma and doesn't want to talk about what happened to her. They always knew her as…" Granger appeared to hunt for the right word. "Eccentric, in any case. I made sure to cover only her memories of being a witch, not her memories of acting and living among people without magic. She'll be all right. She has plenty of money, and she can make a life and a career there with the connections she's forged."

Draco nodded. He was sure Granger had done what she'd done out of an intense, very Gryffindor need to do _something _for Daphne, since they could hardly haul her to Azkaban without revealing that Harry had eaten her magic and they'd broken into her manor house. Draco approached the problem from a different perspective, however. As long as Daphne had lost her memories and would think she'd always been powerless, there was no reason for her to seek him out. And there was no reason for any friend of hers to come looking specifically for Draco, Harry, and Granger, either.

"But," Granger said, and Draco felt his belly wind so tight he nearly vomited up the chicken he'd eaten, "there is one problem, one I didn't know about until too late."

"What?" Draco rasped. He tightened his hands on the bedclothes. He was _not _about to have a panic attack. Harry wouldn't think he was weak, but Harry was different—Draco's friend and business partner and lover in all but name. Granger still looked at Draco as if he were fewmets on the bottom of her shoe sometimes.

"Daphne had a spell in her house," Granger said quietly, "one of her own design, or I would have sensed it when I examined the house's magic before we left. It acts like a Muggle video camera—" She paused, probably because Draco had narrowed his eyes, and then said, "Or a Pensieve, I suppose. It records the events that happen in front of it and stores them. If she doesn't cast a certain other spell to erase the recording within a short period of time, the spell sends the images elsewhere."

"Where?" Draco barked, feeling his stomach tighten one more notch. "And how do you know this, anyway?"

The door opened before Granger could answer. Harry took one look at Draco's face and stepped across the space between them, opening his arms. Draco leaned against his chest and shut his eyes. He hadn't realized before that Harry's heartbeat was one of the most soothing sounds he'd ever heard. He'd let Harry face Granger, for the moment, and deal with the latest crisis.

It wasn't that Draco didn't _want _to be strong again and able to handle things on his own. He wanted it as much as he wanted to lie down with Harry for the first time. But it was better to conserve his strength so that he could actually _do_ so, rather than exhaust himself by making too much effort too soon.

* * *

Harry controlled the urge to snap at Hermione. She had insisted Draco needed to know what had happened to, and after, Daphne. And of course it would affect him badly no matter what. She was not the reason Draco sagged against Harry as if all the bones had melted out of the upper part of his body.

But the real reason was beyond Harry's reach, as he reminded himself when rage rolled through his body like a cresting tide. He'd eaten her magic. That would have to be enough, though increasingly he didn't feel as if it was.

"We don't know where the memories were sent," he said softly, stroking Draco's back. He'd heard the other man's questions whilst he was still out in the corridor, and that had been one reason he decided to enter; he'd been dithering, wondering whether Draco and Hermione would benefit more from talking alone. "And Hermione only knows this much because she noticed something odd magically about Daphne's house when she went to visit it yesterday."

"You went to visit?" Draco turned around in Harry's arms, the strangeness of the news apparently making him decide to face Hermione. "Why?"

Hermione flushed and looked at her hands. But she answered, which was more than Harry thought she would have done a few weeks ago, when she considered Draco solely in the light of the brewer of the Desire potion. "She has books there—rare, magical ones that I noticed when I examined the house for spells. And she isn't using them any more."

Harry smiled in spite of himself. Hermione lifted her head a moment later and stared defiantly back at him. Draco, of course, just nodded. He probably found nothing at all strange about the idea of taking useful possessions from someone who had no need for them.

"I felt the tingle of magic when I stepped through the door," Hermione continued, sounding eager to have the story over with. Harry couldn't blame her. It wasn't pleasant—neither the story itself nor the consequences that might come from it. And Hermione still thought that missing the spell in the first place was her fault, though Harry had reassured her he didn't blame her. How could he, when they'd had much more important things to worry about, such as getting Draco to hospital and Obliviating Daphne? "That was the spell's sending the memories to whoever it sent them to. A friend or ally of Daphne's would be the obvious choice. I took apart the spell then, and figured out what it did. But it was too late to retrieve the memories." She looked directly at Draco, and Harry hoped the other man was able to see the compassion in her eyes. It could be hard when her voice was as clipped as it was right now. "I'm sorry. I don't know how much it sent, what it saw, or where those images are, even now. And that's why I think someone may still be hunting us, and why I need to know anyone who might have been important to—_her_, anyone she might have trusted to appreciate secrets like that rather than be disgusted."

Draco closed his eyes and said nothing at all. Harry held him closer, to make sure he hadn't stopped breathing along with retreating into silence. His right hand again moved without his conscious volition, rucking the hospital gown up to touch Draco's bare skin beneath. Draco gave one violent start when that happened, then leaned into Harry's hand to show his touch was welcome.

"So." Draco's voice was as clipped as Hermione's, though Harry knew he was desperately trying to restrain a very different set of emotions. "Someone else knows every detail of the way I was humiliated and raped?"

"We don't know how many details—" Hermione began, but stopped when Harry gave a warning shake of his head. Draco, at the moment, required reassurance, not logic.

"We don't know," he simply said, and rubbed his cheek against Draco's head. He could feel the thoughts racing under that blond hair, and whilst he knew their general tenor, he badly wished he could read every single one of them. He _needed _to know what Draco was thinking. "But if we start learning the names of Daphne's friends and allies, we might be able to track them down."

Draco drew a deep breath. And then he opened his eyes and spoke almost normally. Harry felt a sunburst of pride gathering in his chest and hoped he was keeping the silly grin off his face. From the sidelong glance Hermione sneaked him, he might have shown it anyway.

"She had fewer friends, and more ex-lovers," Draco began. "People she managed to charm, or who shared a few of her proclivities, and so she didn't feel the need to treat them as badly as she did me. I know the names of two men who were in her bed around the same time I first was: Tobias Morrison and Hunter Littlesmith. Morrison is a half-blood, I think, but one who's chosen to live mostly in the Muggle world. Littlesmith works in some sub-Department of the Ministry. As for the rest…I'd suggest you look around her house again when you go to collect her books, Granger. Daphne was a trophy-keeper. It's highly likely she'll have a list of them somewhere, though perhaps behind another spell she invented."

Hermione rose to her feet in a rush of motion, her face brilliant. Harry could see how the thought of having something to do, some way to make up for her mistake, energized her. He smiled into Draco's hair. Draco probably felt less comfortable around Hermione than she did around him, but he'd instinctively known how to drag her out of brooding about something she couldn't change. They _understood _each other, and that could be more important than liking.

"This time, I'll find it," Hermione said fiercely. "I can tear apart the house if I like; I've placed wards on it that will prevent anyone but me from entering, and charm most people who approach it, even if they're wizards, into forgetting it exists. And she's not there to stop me." She gave a hasty nod to Draco, kissed Harry's cheek, and hurried out of the room.

Harry remained in silence with Draco a few moments more, stroking his back and letting him choose a time to talk about what he felt concerning Daphne's memories of him escaping. Draco continued still and silent, though, with even the revealing sound of his breath hushed. Then he pulled back, looked Harry straight in the eye, and said, "I have something to confess."

Harry nodded encouragingly, hardly daring to exhale himself, lest he should scare Draco into backing off.

"This," Draco said, pointing to his tray, "is the absolute worst chicken I have _ever _tasted."

Harry laughed and hugged Draco harder. So he wanted to wait and choose his time and his words. That was all right. They had the rest of their lives to talk to each other about things like that, as far as Harry was concerned. The truth of Draco's feelings would emerge some day, or week, or year.

He had just leaned back when someone flung the door open. Harry turned sharply, instinctively putting his body between Draco and danger. Yes, Daphne herself was powerless to harm them now, but perhaps whichever of her allies had received the memories was ready to act on his information, and any mediwitch or Healer who entered like that should have their license revoked.

The last person Harry expected to see stood in the doorway, and she wore one of the last expressions he expected to see on her face. It actually took him some moments to recognize her—her resemblance to Draco helped greatly—and by the time he had, he was staring at her wand.

Narcissa Malfoy said tightly, "Get away from my son, as you value your life."


	2. Narcissa Malfoy and Other Complications

Thank you again for all the reviews!

_Chapter Two—Narcissa Malfoy and Other Complications_

Draco found himself scanning his mother raptly, searching for some sign that she might have changed from the last time he'd seen her, in the drawing room of Malfoy Manor two years ago. She had rushed in sounding as if she were ready to defend his honor. She _must _have changed, mustn't she? She had changed her mind about her son deserving his disinheriting because he had chosen to brew potions, and so come to rescue him.

But her mouth was still thin-lipped and her eyes still narrow, and Draco saw the way her gaze darted to him and then away again. His chest tightened for a moment. Then he shook his head impatiently. Daphne had affected him more than he realized, if he was looking for _sympathy_ from his mother.

"Tell me why Harry should get away from me, Mother," he said, making sure his voice sounded perfectly calm and composed, rather like a guest at the Three Broomsticks who'd just had someone burst into the pub and dash his drink to the floor. "As far as I can see, he's done a better job of protecting me in the last little while than you have in the last seven years."

Harry stepped back and put a hand on Draco's shoulder, as if giving and receiving support at the same time. Draco sneaked a quick glance at his face and was surprised at the naked relief there.

_Did he really think I would turn my back on him because my mother demanded it? _Draco captured Harry's hand and gave it a tense squeeze, hoping that would tell the other man the truth. _She lost the right to control my actions the moment I stopped being a child, and she lost the right to give me advice when she told me it would be better if I gave up all my money and my shop rather than disgrace the family name by working._

"I know the truth about him." Narcissa's voice was dangerous, at the pitch Draco remembered hearing it when she argued with Lucius about Draco taking the Mark. "He can consume magic. I won't have you near him, Draco, using you as a convenient source of power now and then."

Draco sat up sharply. _Daphne sent the memories to her. Maybe she just wanted my parents to see me humiliated. Maybe she wanted them to feel powerless to help me. But, of course, my mother's reaction is to assume that Harry would destroy me in the same way he did Daphne._

"It's not what you think," Harry was saying, with such earnestness that Draco wanted to punch him. Yes, it was like Harry to be desperately pleasant to Draco's parents, but _really. _"I only hurt Greengrass that way to save Draco. I would never—"

"I saw your magic," Narcissa said, and she was almost vibrating now, though the wand in her hand never varied from pointing at Harry's chest. "It was Dark Arts. I've already seen my son controlled for a large portion of his life by a Dark wizard, or by the fear of him. What would happen if he wanted to leave you, or charge more for the Desire potion? You hold the ultimate threat over his head. No wizard or witch can really survive losing their magic. I _will_ have Draco free. Move away from him, _now._"

Harry lifted his head, and Draco was glad to see anger traveling across his face like a heat shimmer.

"I don't plan on leaving Draco alone for a good long time," Harry said coolly. "We're business partners, and we're friends, and we'll be—"

Draco stuck an elbow into his ribs. He just _knew _Harry was going to say something like "We'll be more than that, if he lets me." But he wasn't ready just yet for his mother to know that his desire for Harry Potter extended to sharing a bed with him.

Harry flushed very red, and choked. Narcissa narrowed her eyes until Draco was surprised she could see out of them, and then said, "You were warned, Mr. Potter, and chose not to heed me. _Abi_—"

"_No!_" Draco snapped, so forcefully he interrupted his mother's incantation. He had recognized it immediately: a curse that would break several of the more vital synaptic connections in Harry's brain, and leave him a vegetable in a way not distinguishable from a sudden stroke. Draco had heard his father use it more than once, mostly on old and ailing enemies. It shocked him that his mother would even think of using it on Harry, and in the one place in the British wizarding world where the Healers were most likely to realize Harry's condition wasn't an accident.

Narcissa spun to face him, her wand lowering and her face working through several different expressions. Draco blinked. His mother hadn't left her wits at home, or become such a confident and reckless witch in the last few years that she thought she could get away with any piece of magic she pleased. She was simply desperate.

"Draco," she whispered. "You don't understand, son. You're free to come home now. We _need _you there, when we realized how close we came to losing you. All's forgiven. We can care for you better than they can here, and certainly better than Potter can." She gave Harry a look of loathing that made Draco automatically cuddle closer to the other man. Harry's grip on his shoulder became almost crushing in response. "Lucius agreed that I should be the one to come, because he didn't think he could control himself if he saw Potter touching you."

"I _am_ touching him," Harry said, and his voice was low and ugly. The hair on Draco's arms rose with the gathering of powerful magic. "I intend to stay right here. If Draco _wants _to go with you, that's one thing, but I won't let him be coerced." He turned and stared at Draco, raising his eyebrows.

"No," Draco whispered. His own anger was unfreezing at last, overcoming him in a great cold wave like snowmelt. His mother might have put Harry into a permanent coma, and all because of her own unfounded reactions. "I want to stay with you."

Harry turned back to Narcissa, smirking. Draco wondered for a moment where he'd picked up the expression, then snorted. _From me, of course._

* * *

Harry found it hard to face Mrs. Malfoy without guilt. He _had _endangered Draco when he consumed Greengrass's magic, though he doubted Draco had realized that yet. He'd had so much certain damage to recover from, potential or future danger was banished to the lowest recesses of his thoughts.

But the notion would come back. He would realize that he could easily have been a victim along with Greengrass. And on the day Draco turned and looked up at him with a pale and frightened face, what would Harry do?

_Fight. Fight to stay with him. Swear I'll never hurt him. And do my best to make that true._

Perhaps a variant of the Desire potion could help, Harry thought, and then swept the thoughts into his own lowest recess of the mind. The immediate threat was Narcissa Malfoy, who might yet convince Draco to abandon him. Draco had grown up with his parents, their beloved only child. They must share bonds of affection that Harry, who _knew_ his mother had loved him but could remember only one moment of it, would barely understand.

For the moment, it would be fatal to show any of his doubts or hesitations. He simply kept his hand on Draco's shoulder, ready to support him and his decisions whatever came.

Narcissa had lowered her wand. She had a contemplative expression on her face, as if she remembered they stood in hospital and therefore use of a complicated curse might not be her best choice. She looked once into Harry's eyes, then focused back on Draco, seeming to have decided to ignore Harry completely. Her voice was low and reasonable. "You know that we all said things in anger we did not mean, Draco. But your father and I are willing to offer you another chance. You are still our son, our blood. The years have not changed the meaning of that. You have a home in the Manor."

Draco had gone very still beneath Harry's hand. Harry was not sure what had happened between him and his parents, but given the chilly response when Harry had tried to inform the Malfoys of the loss of Draco's shop, he knew it must have been something crippling. It took a great deal of effort to stand where he was and allow Draco to meet his mother's sally, without stepping forwards to bear the brunt for him.

"I will never make my home in a place where people do not support my ambitions," Draco said, "where I was told that my talent and my art were worse than loving Muggleborns because loving Muggleborns was progressive now." He was shaking, very slightly, but Harry knew it was the tremor of anger and not of fear or distress, so he did nothing to prevent it. He shook a little with his own pride, and let Narcissa take that for weakness if she willed. "Only after I left did I find out how very _repressed_ the life you lead is, Mother. Anything is more acceptable than passion. Even sex without love and for money is more acceptable than that, because it doesn't endanger your self-control as much as passion does. And you wanted _me _to stop brewing potions." He laughed sharply, as if he had shards of metal in his throat. "Well, maybe I wanted you to wake the fuck up."

Narcissa stepped back, as if the epithet had been a slap in the face. But all color almost instantly fled her cheeks, and her lips had become the same thin line she'd entered the room with. _Repressed, indeed, _Harry thought, frowning at her. _I can see why my use of the potion drove Draco so mad._

"We have been granted a true opportunity to reunite," Narcissa said, speaking with an audible strain in her voice now, "without a loss of dignity on either side. We will take you back without reproaches, Draco. Your shop could not last. We always said so—" She checked herself and shook her head. "But there will be no reminders of that. Only come to us, and we will support you the way we always have."

"And will you accept that I'd sell potions out of your home? Including the Desire potion?" Draco leaned back and into Harry. "Will you accept Harry, who is going to be my lover soon?"

Once again Narcissa turned paler, though Harry had thought that wasn't possible. She looked like bone china now, and she stared at Harry as if _he _had given the slap. Her eyes darted away almost instantly, the revulsion in them fathoms deep.

Then she looked at Draco, and Harry felt a twinge of pity for her. He saw a woman who loved her son but had not a hope in the world of understanding him.

"Without a loss of dignity on either side, Draco," she repeated. The strain was louder, but still she masked it with a courteous tone and a steady look. "That would mean we would ask you not to taunt us with our mistakes, and we would not taunt you for yours."

Draco's breath rushed nosily in the next few moments of silence. Harry increased the pressure of his hand on the other man's shoulder.

Then Draco laughed, a sound which made it clear something was breaking within him, and said, "The only mistake I've made recently was not telling the Healers that Harry and his friends should be my only visitors."

Narcissa shut her eyes. When she turned and walked towards the door, it was with steady steps. She did pause in the doorway to add, not looking back over her shoulder, "This will not be over so easily, Draco. Nothing is stronger than blood."

And then she left.

Harry bit his lip and stroked Draco's collarbone for a moment, wondering if Narcissa were right. Generally, many wizards _did _think there was nothing stronger than blood, and were not shy about saying so at every opportunity they got. Draco didn't think like that exclusively, because he was living on his own in the "common" world and running a business to boot. But might Narcissa's words make him reconsider? Harry couldn't even blame him if he did. Narcissa was his _mother,_ and—

"Harry."

Draco's voice was so calm that Harry was convinced he was about to announce bad news. He braced himself and hoped Draco didn't feel the inevitable tension in Harry's touch. "Yes?"

"Stop thinking whatever you're thinking," Draco hissed. "I'm not going to abandon you in favor of my parents. I'm not going to suddenly shake my head and break some spell you've cast on me." He reared back and glared into Harry's eyes. "I am _here_, damn it. And I'll be here until I don't want to any more. My family can't come in and flatter me with pretty words, not after what they said the last time we spoke."

"And what was that?" Harry asked, his voice weak with relief.

"I don't want to talk about it yet." Draco caught Harry's hand and nearly crushed it with the force of his squeeze. Harry bent over him, proud again of Draco's strength and wondering at the promise implied in that _yet._ Draco tilted his head back, and his blond hair slid over skin that looked almost as pale.

"Don't let any other visitors come in today," Draco murmured as he closed his eyes. "I don't think I could handle it."

Harry kissed his forehead, and eased him back onto the pillows. Then he went to make sure the door was secure. "Any other visitors" presumably included Healers and mediwitches. Harry was more than happy to deal with them by himself, if that would spare Draco some trouble.

* * *

Draco looked out the enchanted window that he had insisted on having placed in his room the moment he saw the Mind-Healer that morning. She had obliged, and then spoken to him quietly about his nightmares and his memories and the effects on him of multiple Memory Charms and uses of Legilimency.

Draco had no doubt that he would overcome most of the possible negative consequences of Daphne playing with his mind. He was resilient, had the will to survive, and had lived through stress before. It took far more than stress to break him.

Still, he could have done without the memories rustled up and stirring through his head now, and without his mother's visit yesterday.

Someone knocked perfunctorily on the door, then opened it. Draco turned warily, already knowing that it wasn't Harry—he knocked carefully, preserving Draco's fiction of independence here—or a Healer. They didn't bother to knock at all, obviously considering the entire hospital their territory.

Charlemagne Diggory stepped in, gave Draco a smile that looked almost apologetic, and dropped into the chair next to his bed where Harry usually sat. "Good morning, Malfoy," he said evenly. "Not quite as lovely as that view you've got out your window, but not half bad."

Draco was very glad that Harry had not gone far—just to his flat to fetch clean robes, he said—and that he had his wand tucked under his pillow. He managed a smile that should chill Diggory to just above freezing. It had been his father's. "Charlemagne," he said, with patently false courtesy, and watched the other man's lips twitch in annoyance. "Did you want something?"

"I wanted to ask," said Diggory, giving Draco a smile that wasn't fooling anybody, "if you would consider stopping your sale of the Desire potion. You've had a bit of a shock, after all, and anyone would understand you might want to concentrate more on your recovery than your business at the moment."

Draco's fingers played with the edge of the blanket. "And this break from business might last four months?" Four months almost exactly from that day, the Ministerial election would take place.

Diggory smiled. "I am impressed with your perceptiveness, Malfoy. I haven't _always _been, you understand, but just at the moment, it's staggering."

Draco shook his head. "I fail to see why you should be so concerned with our potion, Diggory," he said. Honesty could sometimes catch an opponent off-guard, and Draco felt like being honest just then. "We're not deliberately trying to sabotage your campaign. I don't owe you money. Harry doesn't really care that you're trying to become Minister; he just doesn't want you pissing him off. Why do you still care about Desire?"

"You have the potential to muck up my campaign, whether or not you mean to." Diggory spoke calmly, brown eyes fastened on the far wall as if a view even more fascinating than Draco's window occupied it. "I would prefer to get rid of that potential. When I'm Minister, of course I'll be able to regulate the potion as I see fit—"

Draco bared his teeth. "_Will_ you?"

"Must you? Challenges like this are tiresome." Diggory's gaze switched back to Draco's face. "We both know that a Minister actively opposed to you in office is a bad thing. I'm offering my hand in friendship." He held it out to Draco, palm up. "That could be of much more use to you than your opposition."

"You must not have heard of the lengths I've gone to to preserve my freedom, along with my life." Draco clasped his hands in front of him.

"Or the lengths _I've_ gone to, to rescue him," said Harry's angry voice from the doorway.

Draco lifted his eyes with a sigh of relief he hoped Diggory didn't hear, and caught Harry's glance. He shook his head slightly when he saw the glow of rage in those green eyes. Yes, Diggory had troubled him, but they didn't need Harry becoming murderously angry as he had at Daphne.

Harry perhaps understood even without Draco's speaking; given their closeness so far, Draco wouldn't have put it past him. He nodded back and stalked to the edge of Draco's bed, but he went out of his way to avoid Diggory on the short journey. He stood at Draco's shoulder almost exactly as he had when Narcissa burst through the door, and said, "Funny. When I left the room, I could have sworn that the stink of politician was _nowhere _in St. Mungo's."

Diggory smiled, though it seemed to strain the skin of his face somewhat to do so. "My name opens doors," he said. "Rather like yours could, Potter, if you only applied yourself to the lessons you should have learned already."

"Excuse me for preferring _real _smiles and _real _friendships," Harry said, but he had calmed down. His time on his variant of the Desire potion might have done him some good, after all, Draco thought, as he felt the other man's fingers flexing up and down on his shoulder. He knew the good reasons for suppressing his temper, and that led to making an effort to suppress it. "But why are you here? You should know by now that we have very little to say to you."

"That is true, certainly." Diggory gave Harry the edge of a polished smile and held out his hands as if warming them before a fire. "But I may have something to offer you. Stay out of politics for four months. Do not sell the Desire potion, even under the regulations that the Potions Committee approved for you. Give no opinion on the Ministerial race. Do this, and I swear, you will be richly rewarded."

"You can't bribe either of us with money," Harry said quietly, as if it weren't even an option and he was surprised Diggory was trying. _He might be able to bribe me with a _lot _of money, _Draco thought of protesting, but sensed it wasn't the time for the comment, and held his tongue. "And you should know we don't want promises from you."

"Not even with the money that it would take to rebuild Malfoy's shop?" Diggory murmured, voice barely audible. "Not even with the promise that I won't release what I know about your breaking into a certain manor house over the weekend, which was followed by the disappearance of a prominent former Slytherin?"

Draco was glad he'd found the hospital food too unappetizing to eat that morning. He thought he might throw up.

Harry didn't waste time asking useless questions, such as how Diggory had found out, which cheered Draco. He'd gained some sense. "And perhaps we'd release some secrets of your own," he said.

Diggory arched an eyebrow. "Really? I'm not aware of having given any away to you."

Harry grinned and folded his arms. Draco eyed him sideways, but didn't dare look too closely. He might give away that he had no idea what game they were playing. "You didn't. You dance to a subtle tune. But you might consider what _other _former Slytherin we've recently confronted, and who's now disappeared. Not from the wizarding world altogether, of course, but from the political race."

_Cordelia. _Draco doubted that Cordelia had really betrayed anything to Granger and Harry, but with the Unbreakable Vows they'd made her swear, she would have had to cut off contact with Diggory. And surely she would have been too proud to tell him why.

It was enough to make Diggory suspicious, at least. His nostrils flared as he rose slowly to his feet. "I think you'll find that Gryffindors are unsuited to the blackmail game, Potter," he said. He wasn't smiling any more. Draco thought he liked him better this way. His resemblance to a hungry wolf was more pronounced.

Harry only smiled blandly back at Diggory and tilted his head a little. _Yes, the potion gave him a lot of practice, _Draco thought, slightly in awe. He wouldn't have believed the furious man who'd entered the room could go calm in so little time, with so little effort. "Just tell yourself that. And then remind yourself of what might emerge if you should release _our _little secret."

Diggory sighed, and draped his bland mask back over his face. "So many crises could be avoided if people saw sense more often," he murmured.

"And if they did, we would be out of reasons to sell Desire potion and you would be out of a job," Harry snapped back. "Spare me your lament."

Diggory turned and walked out of the room as Narcissa had, without looking back. Harry immediately hissed and shut the door with a wave of his wand. "I'll make the Healers keep people out of your room, if I have to _strangle _them," he said.

"Do you think he'll really keep mum?" Draco whispered.

"Yes." Harry sat down in front of him and took his hands. "He doesn't know what secrets we possess."

"He may gamble and decide we don't know any at all." Draco leaned his head on Harry's shoulder, amazed once more that he had someone who wouldn't think him weak for doing so.

"Actually, we do."

Draco lifted his head and blinked. "Cordelia?" he asked. "Or Granger?"

Harry shook his head slightly and looked away for a moment. "Let's just say," he murmured, "that I've become worldly enough to learn the value of weapons. Even those you most want to avoid using."

And as persistently as Draco questioned him, that was all he would say on the matter for the rest of the day.


	3. Learning the Ropes

Thank you again for all the reviews!

_Chapter Three—Learning the Ropes_

Harry spent a moment gazing down at Draco. He was asleep on Harry's pillows more than on his bed, his head practically dangling over the edge, his mouth wide open, with delicate snores emerging from it. Harry was still slightly surprised that the Healers had allowed him to remove Draco from St. Mungo's, with the shadows beneath his eyes. But given the embarrassed silence when Harry told them about Diggory's visit—a silence that confessed they were not sure they would be able to keep enemies out—Harry had insisted.

_And Harry Potter gets what he wants._

Harry turned his head and paced away from Draco, staring out through the window of his flat. The view was normally an uninspiring one of the streets of Muggle London, but Harry could conjure up enchanted visions if he wanted. He did so now, and found himself watching a dark forest in the light of a full moon, the silver ripples and flashes being destroyed and springing anew whenever the tree branches bent under the wind.

He had been caught, unexpectedly, by an upswelling of indignation and anger and hopelessness yesterday, during one of Draco's minute naps. Enemies seemed to be closing in on them from all sides. Just because Greengrass had sent the memories to the Malfoys didn't mean she hadn't also sent them to other people. The problem of Draco's lost shop and home waited for them outside hospital; despite their new ties to one another, Harry couldn't think Draco would want to share his home forever. And then there was Charlemagne Diggory, and the rules of the Potions committee, and the rumors that might be stirred when they tried to start selling Desire again, and the possible revenge Cordelia Nott might take if she could find a way past the Unbreakable Vows Harry and Hermione had made her swear.

It was all too much to bear without help. Maybe, if it had been just him and Hermione alone, Harry would have risked it. But Draco had already lost too much, suffered too much. And Harry would die before he would let someone else hurt Draco again.

And so he'd done the one thing he'd sworn he would never do, and sent a few letters to other people, asking for help—and drawing on the power of his name.

He hadn't wanted to. He'd sat there for long moments, last night, the quill in his hand, imagining what Snape would have said about this, whether Dumbledore would have approved or disapproved, whether Sirius would have thought it was all a grand joke or a rat-like act unbecoming of any true Gryffindor. Harry had had his share of nightmares, years ago when he first began to brew his own potion, about Sirius calling him Pettigrew for refusing to face up to his own emotions. Could he do this? What if he achieved safety but sacrificed his independence and self-respect?

And every time, the sight of Draco's face returned to him. And every time, he sighed and went on writing.

He had already seen that he had one sort of power at his command which Draco didn't fear or hate as much as Harry had thought he would, even though that magic could have devoured Draco, too. Harry would have to chance that Draco would think this was worth the cost, once he learned about it.

He was _trying _to be more worldly, he thought, leaning his forehead on the cool glass of the window. He was _trying _to act like an adult. And acknowledging that he had the power to better their situation and using that power was adult, surely. The major problem was that he had multiple arguments in his head telling him that such and such an act was worthwhile, and providing him with excellent rationales against those actions at the same time.

A flutter of dark wings crossed the scene in front of him, and then an owl rapped on the window. Harry took a deep breath and reached out to swing it open. Unless he was grossly underestimating the speed with which she'd respond to the offer of an exclusive interview, this first owl was from Rita Skeeter.

_You can do this, Harry. It's worth it._

* * *

Draco woke slowly. For a moment, he blinked at the ceiling and wondered why his head felt so fuzzy and grainy. He was out of hospital, now, and would be able to eat _real _food. He should have been cheerful.

Then, once again, the memory of his mother's words struck him. Draco closed his eyes and grimaced, indulging in a deep revulsion he didn't feel comfortable showing in front of Harry. Harry had been there for Daphne's defeat, and so Draco didn't mind him seeing the consequences of her torture. But Harry had not been there—no one had been there—the day that Draco and his parents had the argument that resulted in their breaking.

_And I wouldn't have wanted him there._

Yet it stung and preyed on his mind, nonetheless. The words burned in his head, a fever he could inflict on himself whenever he wanted to spend some time thinking about it.

"_We did the best we could to get you through the war and give you a good life afterwards, Draco—_"

_"You didn't!" he'd screamed back, with enough force that his voice cracked, and he thought for a moment (or maybe wished) that his throat would crack with it. "You never did! You've gone back to the same life you always had, the same limited, priggish, _pitiful _life, and God knows when you'll make the next mistake!_"

_His mother had curled her lip just a bit, but it was enough to tell Draco he had crossed the border of the things they never mentioned. Draco and Lucius did not accuse each other of making mistakes during the war. Draco never spoke of his bitterness that his father's mad, foolish choice of the Dark Lord had placed his son in such danger, and Lucius never said he was disappointed Draco had submitted to everyone involved instead of somehow making an escape into dignity and victory. If they tore open the wound, no one knew when it might stop bleeding._

_And his mother was between them, but closer to his father with every year that passed, bearing her memories of the immediate danger of the war with it. She would risk everything again to guard Draco if he was in peril, but she had never admitted that Lucius should have refrained from joining the Death Eaters. The few times Draco tried to press her on the issue, she asked him what Lucius should have done, when he wanted political power and believed in pure-blood superiority, and reminded him that he had not been alive to judge his parents as they were in those days._

_Now Draco was treading close to that judgment, and his mother's eyes warned him to stop. But Draco did not want to stop. He opened his mouth to launch another salvo._

"Draco? Do you want breakfast?"

He started, because for a moment he thought it likely the soft, diffident voice was his mother's. Narcissa was capable of sounding like that when she thought she'd won. Then he recognized Harry's words, and opened his eyes, and forced his memories away.

"Morning already?" he murmured.

"Yes." Harry smiled at him and set a tray full of food—though most of it looked unfairly bland and nourishing—on the table beside the bed. "Ten-o'clock, in fact. Of course, I understand you have all these engagements that you just can't miss, so in good conscience I couldn't let you sleep any longer."

Draco tried to make a rude gesture at Harry, but a yawn rather interrupted that. He scooped up the first piece of toast near at hand and promptly lavished most of the marmalade Harry had brought on it. He shrugged when Harry raised a disapproving eyebrow. "You'll just have to bring me more then, won't you?" he muttered and bit into the toast. It crunched unappetizingly in his mouth, but with the marmalade, it was just about tolerable. Draco sighed and wondered if it was worth the effort of an argument with his mother to call Patty from the Manor. Now that she had reestablished contact, Narcissa would assume _any _move towards his parents meant Draco wanted to reconcile.

It wasn't that Harry's cooking was horrid. But it wasn't rich enough, and as a recovering invalid, Draco needed the best food he could get.

"Let me know when you're up to discussing something more serious than your choice of marmalade," Harry muttered, leaning back in his chair.

"The choice of marmalade is very serious. You, of course, would not understand that, being a marmalade plebeian." Draco glanced at him, arrested in both the joke and picking up the next piece of toast and smearing butter on it_. _Harry looked, and sounded, tired. "Is sleeping on the couch not to your liking?" he asked. "I offered to share the bed, if you'll recall."

Harry blinked twice, and then a blush, of all things, worked up his face from his shirt collar. "It's not that," he muttered, looking away. "I—stayed awake worrying about you. We're not in a very good position, you know?"

"With Diggory, and my parents, and the Healers, and possibly Nott, and the press, on our trail?" Draco made himself pay attention to the toast this time, simply so that he wouldn't drip butter on Harry's sheets. "You don't say."

"Well." Harry leaned forwards. "I have a strategy."

Draco stared at him. Harry rolled his eyes. "I'm not as hopeless at planning as that glance seems to imply."

"Yes, but you're—best in the midst of battle," Draco said diplomatically. "I had thought I'd think up most of the plans, and you'd put them into operation." He licked a few crumbs off his fingers, and, because it was his fingers and his tongue, Harry's eyes followed the motions intently. Draco bit his lip to quell a smile; at the moment, Harry might take any happy expression as an insult to his very serious plans. "You're force. I'm brains."

Harry reached out and casually ruffled his hair. Draco, caught between wanting to melt at the tenderness of the gesture and irritation at the dismissal it implied, settled for glaring even as he caught Harry's retreating hand and smoothed his palm with a thumb.

"Your rescue from Greengrass didn't require any particular strategy," Harry murmured. "And then the one I was forced to use was one I'd rather not repeat." A quiver of darkness crossed his face, and Draco narrowed his eyes. _Still afraid of his own magic, isn't he? That is something we will have to address. _"But I managed to come up with a strategy that worked for the potions committee."

"Indeed you did." Draco rubbed his cheek against Harry's palm, then picked up the bowl of porridge. _Consume it slowly. You'll have to get through it, from the looks Harry's throwing you, but eat it too quickly and he'll think you like it. "_And this is a different kind of battle from that. I am not even sure you can help me with my parents."

"Maybe not." Harry looked at him sidelong. "Not until you tell me what happened between you and them, anyway."

Draco stiffened his shoulders, but spoke lightly. "I told you. I wanted more independence, and they disdained that. In the end, we had a parting of the ways when I essentially told them to go fuck themselves, and they refused to speak to me or allow me back in the house until I gave up the dreams that so displeased them." He put a spoonful of porridge in his mouth. It still didn't taste good, but it gave him an excellent excuse not to answer the questions he could hear hissing on the end of Harry's tongue.

Harry watched him for a long moment. His eyes had darkened with some emotion Draco couldn't read. He shifted, wondering what would happen if they lost the easy camaraderie that had existed between them in St. Mungo's. Would that make them more vulnerable prey for their enemies? Would not confessing every thought that occurred to one of them, immediately, be the opening that allowed Diggory or someone else to destroy them?

Then Harry shook his head and said, "Well. You can tell me in more detail when you're more comfortable doing so." Draco nodded, more soothed by the trust—for a moment—than he was irritated by the assumption that he _would _want to tell Harry sometime in the future. "We rather wandered from my strategy for beginning to deal with our position."

"And what was that wonderful strategy?" Draco asked, unsticking his tongue from the roof of his mouth, where the porridge had pushed it.

"Well, first, I think we can convince Skeeter to do a little digging into our friend Diggory's immaculate background." When Harry smiled, Draco found out, he still lost his breath and wanted to stare. That was, in a way, a good thing. "He's a _politician. _There has to be something there he doesn't want anyone to find out. And the fact that it hasn't come out so far only means that it's well-hidden, not that it doesn't exist."

Draco frowned. "And how are we going to convince Skeeter to help us? Sure, she'd report something on Diggory if she found it, but—"

"We're giving her something she wants," Harry said with quiet force. "Or I am, anyway."

Draco blinked. For some reason, the only thing he could think about was Harry offering to let Skeeter fuck him, and that thought made his shoulders stiffen with a wash of jealousy. But he knew enough about Harry by now to realize that he wouldn't have held and kissed Draco as he did if he didn't intend to be faithful to him alone, so he raised an eyebrow and waited.

"I promised her an exclusive interview with me," Harry confirmed. "She's wanted one for years, even though I've mostly dropped out of the public eye. Maybe simply to make up for never having one that I didn't control back when I was a student."

"You hate your publicity," said Draco, when some moments had passed and staring didn't seem able to convey the force of his surprise.

"I know." Harry's hands knotted in his trousers, and he spent a long moment staring over Draco's head at the opposite wall, as if he were already imagining the flash of the cameras and how much he'd hate them. "But it's a weapon, Draco, one that Diggory's wielded more successfully than we have so far. And he's only a Ministerial candidate. If people are interested in him, they should be more interested in me." He looked Draco directly in the eye. "I promise that I won't say a word about the relationship between us, or about you at all, unless you tell me I can. I'll only explain my own side of the Desire potion brewing, or the rumors that I oppose Diggory's candidacy, or whatever Skeeter wants me to talk about."

Draco shook his head. In a way, what Harry was saying made sense. They _should _use any weapon at their disposal. And was one that Diggory would fear, in particular, one he had tried to ensure Harry couldn't use by trying to bribe him. But that didn't lessen the fact that Harry would hate it like fire even as he used it.

"I don't want you to make yourself so unhappy," Draco whispered at last.

Harry's eyes softened, and he reached out and laid his hand on Draco's cheek. Draco turned his head and let his lips rest against the center of Harry's open palm—not a kiss, but as good as.

"And I don't want to see you unhappy, either," Harry said roughly. "Thanks to people like Greengrass and Diggory, I've already had to endure that, though. I can survive a little more suffering. There's no way to get out of this unscathed, Draco. At least I'm choosing my wounds."

Draco grimaced and glanced at his tray. The porridge really had lost all taste for him, but he picked up a spoon and soldiered down another bite. "And is there anything else that you're using your publicity for?" he asked.

"Actually, yes."

Draco dropped the spoon and stared at Harry. He never would have expected that answer. And he had worried about their camaraderie from the hospital fading. It seemed Harry had deliberately changed himself into a stranger overnight.

* * *

Harry sighed at the look on Draco's face. Perhaps he should have told him about this from the beginning, the way that he wished Draco had simply told him about the arrangement with Greengass so Harry could be prepared when it went sour and she began to use curses to control Draco's actions.

On the other hand, Harry intended to remain in full control of the arrangements he made with others at all times. And if some of them had unintended consequences, at least they wouldn't be Memory Charms, rape, and uncontrolled use of Legilimency.

"What else?" Draco said at last. His voice was low and strained, as if he wanted to yell but knew it wouldn't be productive.

"I've contacted a few people who asked me to sponsor charities or pet projects," Harry admitted. He winced at the thought of what "sponsoring" could mean—more appearances in public, more people convinced they knew him, more time lost he would rather have spent in private with Draco and Hermione—but it was still worth seeing Draco alive and uninjured to him. "From them, we'll be able to get some financial backing for the Desire potion, and also to rebuild your shop."

Draco drummed a fist into one knee. When the drumming didn't stop or slow down but only increased, Harry had to fight to keep from speaking. Draco was building up to something—a dramatic outburst or an accusation, perhaps—and so Harry alternated his gaze back and forth between the drumming fist and the bowed, shadowed face.

"It might have occurred to you," Draco said at last, voice more acid than Harry had imagined it could be, "that I am tired of having decisions made about my life without my consent."

Harry flinched backwards, then reminded himself that the owls were flown and he could not reverse this decision. Besides, he was _not _Draco's parents, or Daphne Greengrass either, for that matter. He might have hurt Draco, and if that was the case he would apologize and they would work it out, but he had not started out with a malicious intent and he would not let Draco pretend he had.

"We were already planning to rebuild your shop, and for me to help with that, before you were taken by Greengrass," Harry pointed out. "I fail to see why a continuation of that plan, just with different methods, should—"

"You don't understand?" Draco snapped the words, yet somehow still managed to make them a question. At least he finally looked up again, though Harry didn't like the squinted, shut-in look of his eyes. "The _method _we were planning on was different. It only required you to learn and think and employ your magic if you could. It didn't require you becoming so unhappy."

Harry sighed. "Draco, I'm willing to endure being unhappy for your sake."

"And I don't want you to be unhappy at all, and your saying that you'll suffer like a martyr for me only increases my dislike of the idea," Draco snapped.

Despite himself, Harry smiled. Draco hesitated, then said, "Well? Are you going to tell me what you've found amusing in this situation?"

Harry reached out, picked up Draco's hand, and kissed the back of his knuckles. Draco flexed his fingers shut once, as if he would make a fist and punch Harry in the jaw, then permitted the gesture, to Harry's relief.

"Yes," Harry said softly. "We're angry with each other because we're each so determined that the other not suffer. I find it endearing, not funny, that this is because we care for each other so very much." He shifted his position so he could more easily put an arm around Draco's neck.

Draco's breathing sped up, and for a moment Harry worried that he might have triggered a bad memory of the time in Greengrass's care. But Draco shook his head and pressed impatiently forwards, whining a bit in his throat. Harry accepted the invitation and kissed him, keeping the pressure of his mouth light and his tongue a darting, barely-felt presence against Draco's lips.

Draco accepted the request at once, and Harry groaned as he felt his tongue slip into Draco's mouth. He had forgotten how _salty _a kiss like this always tasted to him, forgotten how it made him want to press closer and nip at his partner. His arm tightened instinctively on Draco's shoulders, and he leaned in until he found himself falling on top of Draco in the bed, their chests slamming abruptly together and their legs tangling.

Draco grunted, the breath jolted out of him, but returned to the kiss before Harry had time to withdraw his mouth and ask if he was all right. Harry laughed, and the sound made interesting vibrations as his tongue curled and lapped around Draco's teeth and Draco made a sharp thrust with his hips.

It broke off before long; Draco was still tired and weak, and Harry didn't want him to think he was using sex as a way of distracting Draco from his anger. Draco dropped his head on Harry's shoulder and sighed.

"I'm still not happy about this," he admitted, taking a knot of Harry's hair between his fingers and pulling on it a little harder than strictly necessary.

"I wouldn't expect you to be," Harry whispered, and kissed his shoulder. He would have gone on, but a tap from the window told him another owl had returned. He rose to his feet, smoothed his hair down, and smiled at Draco. "But what's done is done, and I'll do what I can to make sure no bad consequences will emerge from it."

"Harry," Draco murmured, throwing his arm across his eyes. "You're playing politics. Bad consequences will _always _emerge from it. The only thing you can do is try to ride those consequences, and tame them to your liking."

Harry smiled, and went right on smiling until he opened the next owl. Then he spent some time staring at the letter before he cleared his throat. "Draco, how likely is this to be a joke?"

"What?" Draco had sat up and was eating another piece of toast from the tray, but he turned around, eyes narrowed, at the sharpness in Harry's voice.

Harry wordlessly handed him the letter. He didn't need to retain and read it. He thought he had memorized it in the few short moments he held it.

_Dear Mr. Potter:_

_As I see you are whoring yourself out as a charity case, might I suggest coming to a party at Malfoy Manor where you will be certain to meet many wealthy benefactors interested in celebrity? The party is on Saturday at two-o'clock. Do try not to be late, and make sure that you, as well as any companions traveling with you, are suitably dressed._

_Lucius Malfoy._


	4. The Malfoys' Party

Thank you again for all the reviews! Sorry I've waited on this one.

_Chapter Four—The Malfoys' Party_

"What do you think?" Harry asked, turning around slowly in front of the mirror that Hermione had conjured and attached to the far wall. Harry had conjured one for himself, but Draco had snapped that wasn't good enough and created one that Harry knew was far too flattering. Hermione had been the one to create a floor-length glass of sufficient clarity that Draco had grudgingly admitted Harry could use it.

Draco didn't say anything. Harry shot an uneasy glance over his shoulder. Draco had been very quiet since he had read his father's letter. He'd agreed at once that they would attend the party at Malfoy Manor, and that they would baffle and dazzle and humble his parents and their guests, but most of the time, he stared at the far wall with his eyes burning. Half of Harry's attempts to draw him out of himself fell flat; he didn't respond to jokes, and barely to reminders to eat. He _had _insisted that Harry's clothes would be the absolute best Galleons could purchase, however, so Harry had hoped that the activity might keep his mind on the present.

Once again, Draco was staring at the far wall. This time, though, he snapped out of it before Harry could shout at him. He smiled and stepped forwards, laying his hands on Harry's shoulders. "Beautiful," he whispered. "Wonderful. Perfect. They aren't going to know who you are without a glance at your face, but they're going to know you're beautifully dressed."

Harry looked at himself doubtfully in the mirror again. Draco had chosen a set of deep red robes, glittering like the inside of a glass of wine, from the samples on display at Madam Malkin's. Harry thought they were much too close to Gryffindor colors to really fit Draco's own taste, but if he had to, then he would wear them. "If you're sure," he said, and shifted his shoulders. One set of robes didn't look different from most others to him, except in the most obvious ways.

"I'm sure." Draco clapped him on the back and stepped away, casting off his own ordinary robes. Harry's breath caught. He had had to undress in the privacy of his bedroom, and here Draco had such confidence in his body that he could get naked in an instant.

Well, it _was _a good body, Harry thought, striving to keep an objective perspective so that he wouldn't stare or drool or do something else embarrassing. Draco's pallor, so startling if you only looked at his face or hands, seemed natural displayed like this, when Harry could make out expanse after expanse of white skin. He was perhaps a little too slender, his skin lying very tight across his ribs, but that could be explained away as a result of recent stress. And his hair curled shining down his shoulders in baby wisps of blond, and he stood with one hand on his hip as he surveyed himself in the mirror, and—

"Harry? My robes, please?"

_So you managed to do something embarrassing after all._ Harry flushed, glad that Draco sounded amused instead of upset. They had kissed and made it clear they mattered to each other, but other than that, their relationship hovered between one pole of love and the other of friendship, unsettled.

Harry quickly fetched the set of robes Draco had chosen, smoothing the cloth nervously once before he handed it over. But Draco just extended his arms to the sides and murmured, "Dress me?"

Was it the tone of his voice or the thought of being allowed access to so many vulnerable places of Draco's body that made Harry shiver? He nodded, then realized Draco couldn't see him with his back turned and cleared his throat. "Yes. I will." And that was probably another affirmation, he thought, biting back the urge to add more words.

He knelt down in front of Draco and folded back the upper half of the robes, leaving the lower half open for Draco to step into. Draco did, one neat, precise step at a time, pale feet rising and then falling. Harry's face burned and he fought the wild temptation to look up at Draco's cock, swinging right above his head.

"Harry."

Had he managed to do something wrong after all? Apprehensively, Harry glanced up, by a miracle keeping his eyes from Draco's groin. Draco had reached out a hand, perhaps to take up part of the robes, but he rested his palm on Harry's head now and smiled.

"You can look," he murmured. "I don't mind." He leaned back, extending his arms languidly, like a swimmer resting in a large pool. "I rather encourage it, in fact."

Harry swallowed and let his eyes rest where they wanted to. And Draco's penis was just a penis, after all, not excessively special. Of course, the fact that it belonged to _Draco _made Harry unable to view it neutrally.

And then it twitched, as if his gaze was exciting it.

Harry swallowed again and pulled hastily back into a half-standing position so that he could tug the robes up Draco's sides. "Undergarments?" he murmured, his breath stirring Draco's hair.

Draco tilted back again, until his head was resting on Harry's shoulder. "I don't need them with these robes," he breathed. "The groin is enchanted to adapt to my groin according to my wishes—to be soft so there's no chafing, and to reveal exactly as much or as little as I want to show."

"Oh," Harry whispered. Since he bought half his clothing in Muggle shops, he was still unfamiliar with the special magic worked into most robes.

Draco extended his arms, and Harry slipped the sleeves over them. Then he settled the back and shoulders into place, and had to move in front of Draco to do up the buttons. Draco had lightly flushed, lending a faint pink tone to that pale chest, and Harry found himself staring, then trying not to stare.

"I told you," Draco murmured, "I don't mind if you look."

"Yes," Harry said, and his voice was hoarse, "but I would do more than look at this point, and then we would never get to your parents' party."

Draco sighed, letting his arms drape briefly around Harry's neck. Then he dropped them again and said, "I wish we did have time. I wish it didn't matter. I wish we didn't have to care about what they thought."

Harry kissed him gently and began to button the robes shut. "So do I," he said. "But that time hasn't come yet, and I'd rather not test the limits of Lucius's tolerance."

"You're not going to talk to him that politely, are you?" Draco glanced at him curiously. "I remembered your being good with sarcasm in school. You could trade a few barbs with him. He'll probably expect you to."

Harry snorted, remembering the letter they'd received. "I doubt I could keep up with him. I think the strategy we discussed earlier is the one we should stick with."

A small smile curved Draco's mouth. "To act stubborn and close to each other, you mean?"

"That's right." Harry finished the last button and turned Draco's wrist over to kiss the pulse point, suddenly more confident than before. The thought of Draco potentially in danger increased his determination to protect Draco from that danger, he thought. "To show them reality."

* * *

Draco looked around the front entrance hall of Malfoy Manor and tried to pretend he was unimpressed. It was difficult. In the years since he'd last seen his parents, either Narcissa had become even more skilled in decorating, she had finally taught the house-elves how to use their ornamental and illusion magic to her satisfaction, or she had hired a professional.

The hall had always been an overwhelming place in its own right, with enormous curving walls that tapered to delicate arches studded with many small windows, but this was more than that. The white marble glittered with an inner light, which had to have been achieved by spells, but spells that Draco wasn't familiar with. Another spell, a subtle one, flickered up and down the arches, emphasizing just how delicate they were, and yet how they somehow managed to support tons of stone. The illusions of trees that sprouted up from the bottoms of the walls, spreading imaginary branches to break up equally imaginary sunlight and stain it green, complemented rather than obscured the beauty of the marble. Narcissa had never been interested in disguising her home; she wanted to remind people that they were in a highly artificial environment, and that she was the one who had created it. If there was one thing his mother tended to despise more than others, it was naturalness.

The windows themselves flashed in random patterns, as bright as sunlight on lakes and as difficult to look directly at, and ran ripples of yellow and gold and white up and down the walls. The effect was something like being underwater, but nothing of blue appeared, or green except where the trees stood. The floor likewise sometimes flashed back an answer to the windows, but its colors were richer, deeper, stranger: geode-purple, sunset-orange, radiant red like melted rubies.

Draco understood the message the moment he stepped through the doors, of course, and had to compress his lips to keep from uttering a deep, bitter chuckle. Harry glanced at him, then stared around the hall and actually shivered. Draco nudged him a little with an elbow. He hoped his mother hadn't seen that, but considering how observant his parents were and how their luck seemed destined to run tonight, she probably had.

"I don't understand," Harry said a moment later. "It's beautiful, but I expected it to have some central theme, and it doesn't."

"The sun," Draco replied, making a sharp up-and-down motion with his right hand. Then he winced as stings of old pain spread up his arm from his spine, but the gesture had accomplished what it was meant to: a house-elf appeared with a low bow and a tray containing a wine made from grapes harvested in the sight of a phoenix's pyre. Draco took a glass with a nod. "The light on the water. The colors everywhere. It's the _light_, Harry. They're declaring allegiance to the side of the war they never served."

Harry frowned a little. "But the light was never the official symbol of anything, not even the Order of the Phoenix," he said.

Draco barely kept from rolling his eyes. He cared for Harry, he really did, but there were times Harry's lack of not just political knowledge but symbolic thinking in general hindered him enormously. "Right, but it's the opposite of the Dark, which _is _the official symbol of the magic the Ministry fought against and mostly banned," he said. "This is a comment on how Mother and Father have labored to change. Sarcastic and earnest at once, and beyond either of those."

He looked around the hall, regretting, for a moment, that he had ever left. The one part of his relationship with his parents he had really enjoyed was sitting at the table with them and listening to them planning another party, another attendance at a Ministry function, another social coup. He could follow the suggestions they made, the logic behind them, and add his own. His suggestions were often accepted, because he was closer to the hearts of the young, whom Lucius also wanted to win, than they were. Sometimes Narcissa would give him a single cold smile, or touch his hand. Those were the signs that she still loved him.

_But affections here were so restrained that sometimes you couldn't be certain of them at all. Do you really want to go back to that?_

Draco shrugged. He didn't think he did. He put his arm through Harry's and drew him closer to his side as the first group of guests, standing beside a table that looked like a natural outgrowth of a tree root, turned towards them.

"Follow my lead," he whispered. "Don't speak unless someone asks you a direct question, or until my parents approach."

"I don't think we'll have much longer to wait," Harry muttered.

Turning his head, Draco saw Lucius cleaving through the crowd like a dolphin through water, his eyes brilliant and deadly and focused right on them.

* * *

Harry had thought the meeting between Draco and his father would show at least a little passion. They were angry at each other, but they were still father and son, and that meant they would be angry about their estrangement, too. He had imagined longing glances mingled with the rage, flushed cheeks, clenched fists. On Draco's part, anyway, even if Lucius was too "civilized" to show any of that.

He got none of that.

Lucius might as well have been a diamond statue, for all the personal reaction he showed to them. He halted in front of Draco and flicked a glance up and down his body. That glance told him everything he needed to know, Harry supposed. Then he looked at Harry in an identical manner. Someone he hadn't seen in almost a decade and someone he hadn't seen in at least two years seemed to need the same amount of judging.

His eyes showed nothing. His mouth showed nothing. He said nothing, either, but the silence was not expressive. It was merely there.

Harry looked at Draco. His face and eyes, to Harry's considerable shock, had taken on the exact same sheen. He had locked all his emotions down, and his silence conveyed no frustration with the turn that events had taken. There was no trace left of the man who had joked and flirted with Harry as they dressed, or the one who had briefly looked nervous when they Apparated from outside Harry's building.

He had chosen the pale blue robes he wore for a reason, Harry decided then. They sucked color out of his face, made him look colder. And that was what he wanted when facing his father, a master of coldness.

_What happened to sticking to reality and showing them how much we mean to each other? _Harry thought fretfully. _I suppose this is an instinctive defense when he's around his parents, but it's one I really can't imitate._

"Welcome," Lucius said at last. Harry listened for traces of sarcasm in the word, and found none. That frightened him more than anything else so far, save Draco's transformation. "I see that you chose to heed my invitation." His eyes shifted to Harry. "I do have a few people you might like to meet, Mr. Potter, so you can begin your prostitution." This time, he appeared to be looking at Harry's clothes. "I must say, most whores dress more revealingly."

The words were so casual that it took Harry a long moment to realize what he had actually said. And then he decided that he didn't care that Lucius, and Draco, both wanted to play it icy. That wasn't his game.

"And there was a time I thought every murderer and torturer was very clearly marked with little squinty eyes, but what do I know?" Harry said, and shrugged.

"Ah," said Lucius. "You are referring to the minor unpleasantness that happened during the war."

Harry saw the trap just before he rushed into it. Lucius wanted him to bluster and look loud and angry and bullish, like a Gryffindor. That would draw attention, and of course the people here would think Lucius looked better in comparison, and those who might give Harry and Draco help in exchange for associating Harry Potter with their causes would be less likely to do so.

"Yes, I am," he said cheerfully. "The Unforgivable Curses that you cast at teenagers. The way you simply handed your wand over to Voldemort when he wanted it." Draco had told him about that, almost casually, and how his father had had to get a new wand after the war. "The way you begged and whimpered and cried at his feet by the end. All that unpleasantness, and the way you took it out on other people."

Lucius looked at him. Still no line of his face bent, no light in his eyes changed, but the silence had. It was cold now. Harry chose to regard that as progress.

Draco's fingers were lightly digging into his arm, maybe to restrain him, maybe to congratulate him. Harry ignored him, not looking away from Lucius. Draco would have to break the mask on his own. Harry was sticking to the strategy they had devised.

"Mr. Potter," Lucius said gravely. "I fear that I might have made a mistake in inviting you here. This party is for adults only."

Harry widened his eyes with what he knew was a comical effect. "I'm sorry. I thought there was a similarity between being adult and accepting responsibility for your actions. Instead, you're one and not the other." He glanced around the room at the people who were trying to watch them surreptitiously. "And most of these would be more of the same, I suppose? A wide range of contacts." He was only pretending to recognize many of the people who filled the room, but nevertheless, some of them shifted uneasily. "What are you trying to do, Lucius, become Minister?"

And he looked back in time to see Lucius's mask break.

* * *

_I can't believe he did that, _Draco thought dazedly as he watched his father's face briefly contort, frustration and anger breaking through to shine in his eyes. It was only for a moment, and then his façade was perfect once more, but that Harry had done it at all was amazing.

And it told Draco at least part of his parents' strategy. Lucius wanted to be Minister, yes, but he had to know that would not be possible in the next few decades; the Malfoy name was simply too tarnished, and their allies were not willing to lose their _own _positions of power by speaking up for them. Therefore, Lucius wanted to have his influence in the Ministry back.

And who better to attach himself to than the rich pure-blood candidate who seemed most likely to win at the moment, Charlemagne Diggory?

It was only a supposition, of course. It might not be true. But Draco knew his father would have some interest in the Ministerial elections at any time, and this was the first time since the war that someone stood a decent chance of beating Shacklebolt, and Diggory was the candidate closest to his father's heart along with being an enemy of Lucius's son.

He half-wanted to curl up and scream that it wasn't fair, it wasn't _fair _that their major enemies might be united against them. He half-wanted to resume the cold mask he'd been wearing, because that at least would meet his father on his own ground.

But Harry had achieved his best results so far by acting exactly like himself. And what had Draco fought his war with his parents for, if not to be himself?

"Now, Harry," he said, stepping up beside Harry and taking his arm more openly. "What did I tell you before the party about betraying the family secrets? Someone could have _heard _that." A few of the people watching them flinched and immediately paid a great amount of apparent attention to their drinks and food. Most of them didn't care about being observed in return to that extent, but Draco heard numerous choruses of whispers spring up in far corners of the room.

Harry could at least take a cue, even though the chances were slim that he had figured out the probable association between the Malfoys and Diggory. He bowed his head and looked contrite. "I'm sorry, Draco. I just thought that one was _obvious_, so it didn't really count as a secret."

Draco kissed him softly on the cheek. He could _feel _his father recoil, though of course Lucius would show nothing. The son he and Narcissa had raised would have done anything before he would have kissed a lover in public. Showing so much emotion was a declaration of vulnerability akin to writing one's weakness on a wall in blazing green letters ten feet high. "I know, Harry. But try to remember in the future."

He turned to Lucius and smiled. It took an enormous amount of effort, given what his instincts were screaming about the best way of handling his parents. If he had been really daring, he would have reached out and tried to clasp his father's hand, but of course Lucius would refuse to meet him hand-to-hand, and Draco still had no desire to look silly.

"Harry's my lover, Father," he said, conveying a lot in those few words, from the semi-affectionate address to the fact that he had used Harry's first name. "What do you think?"

Lucius simply stared. Then he stepped back a little, and Narcissa appeared beside him as if she had Apparated in. She probably had, Draco thought. His mother had long been a master of making as little noise as possible with Apparition, and Lucius could choose to relax the anti-Apparition wards in the house in small areas.

His father was not hiding behind his mother, only recovering from his own shock enough to choose a strategy. Meanwhile, Narcissa would take the offensive.

She wore blue robes in the same shade as his own, which made Draco's heart give an odd little lurch. He ignored it, and focused on his breathing. Of course they had chosen the same robes, and for the same reason. What he couldn't let it do was _matter _to him.

"Draco," Narcissa said, soft, cold, and he knew suddenly that she was about to try a direct attack, which she had never done before in public. "I know what this man means to you. I know also that you will sacrifice your heritage, your life, and a great deal more if you try to live with him and love him."

The "a great deal more" would refer to his magic, Draco thought. Strange. He had never fully realized before that his parents thought of his magic as more important than his life.

"Mother," he said, with a little tip of his head, "I know you've seen—certain things." Narcissa's eyes flickered at the reference to the memories Daphne had sent her. "Didn't you see the part where Harry rescued me from torture? That was the reason, and the only reason, for the other unpleasantness you saw. I was suffering, and he came for me."

Narcissa's lip curled, just the slightest bit. "Draco," she said, "please refrain from innuendo in front of me, however justified you find it."

Draco took a deep breath, not caring who saw it—he was being _open_, wasn't he?—because this was the reason his mother, and not his father, had finally managed to goad him into breaking with them. She would ignore reality, of course, and speak needling little phrases. That was a common tactic of everyone in their circle. But she had a tendency to ignore exactly the things most important to Draco, and treat them as if he was just playing games and everyone in sight knew it. And no matter what happened, she would not give up the pretense.

This time, he held his temper captive, helped by the warmth of Harry against his side. "It's true," he said. "Everything I've said here tonight is true, Mother. Harry is my lover, and you will have to live with it."

"That," said Narcissa, "is where you are mistaken. I offer you one more chance, Draco. And to you, Mr. Potter." An inconspicuous turn of her neck included Harry in the discussion. "Break from our son now. Encourage him to reconcile with us. Agree that you will renounce him."

"No," Harry said, so immobile and unhesitating that Draco felt a moment's staunch pride in him.

Narcissa sighed. "And this is why we will not have to live with it," she said.

The lights in the hall dimmed, or rather, coalesced into shining panels on the walls. Draco realized, then, that his father had not been preparing for a reentry into the conversation at all, but casting several complicated spells. Everyone in the hall turned to look at the lighted panels curiously.

And on them appeared the images from Daphne's memories, of Harry becoming a shadow that glowed with blue flame and devoured magic.


	5. Gryffindor Tactics and Slytherin Bravado

Thank you again for all the reviews!

_Chapter Five—Gryffindor Tactics and Slytherin Bravado_

Harry had time to see the flash of blue flame and shimmering shadows before he reacted. His vision hazed with red. His breath came in gasps so loud he felt himself shake with them. He _knew _what the Malfoys were showing everyone, and the only thought in his head was that they might convince other people, the Ministry or Healers at St. Mungo's or the pure-bloods that surrounded them at the party, to take Draco away from him. They had fought so hard for freedom and the right to make their own decisions, and now it was in danger of draining away—

His magic rose and lashed out through him. Harry didn't think he raised a hand. Instead, his eyes abruptly began to water, and he blinked and squeezed them shut. Draco's hand tightened on his arm until it hurt, and he heard shrieks and a noise like multiple panes of glass smashing.

"Harry," Draco whispered, sounding frightened and reverent both at once. Harry could hardly hear him, so loud were the sounds around them. "What did you _do_?"

"I don't know," Harry said, and then turned his head to the side, burying his nose in Draco's hair. His body shook in the wake of adrenaline and powerful emotions, and he wanted to whimper and yell and grab Draco in his arms and Apparate away. "Just—don't leave me because you're embarrassed, please. I don't care what taunts they hurl at me, but please, care more about me than your reputation. Please—"

Draco shivered, as if it shocked him to hear Harry's begging as much as it did Harry to say it. But the next moment, the tremors passed, and he tightened his hold on Harry's waist. "I won't leave you, I promise," he said. "They would have to drag me away, and even then, I would find some way to come back."

Harry nodded, eyes still tightly shut, and let the overload of magic and fear and shock carry him somewhere else for a while.

* * *

Draco didn't see the moment when Harry actually shattered the panels of light that held the stolen memories. He had barely had time to realize what he was watching, the memories of the moments when Harry ate Daphne's magic—and, of course, none of the moments when Daphne had actually tortured him—when a brilliant white flash exploded from beside him. Draco shot a hand out and clutched Harry's arm so he wouldn't be thrown from his feet.

His first thought was, _Someone is attacking in the middle of my parents' party? Is it Diggory? This magic, however sophisticated, was just a distraction after all, and now he's seizing the chance to kill us—_

Then he realized he recognized the feel and weight and even the smell of Harry's magic, and he watched the panels implode as if made of actual glass and not light and fall in spitting sparks to the ground. Draco ducked as one piece of the light arched towards his head and shot over him like the tail of a comet. Harry leaned against him and shook, and then murmured that nonsense about Draco leaving him. Draco stroked his back and soothed him as best he could, but he already understood that Harry would be useless for the next few minutes.

That left it up to him to face his parents, and their guests.

He looked around him coolly, his face as blank as though he had expected this and wanted only to gauge others' reactions. Lucius probably regretted teaching Draco a mask so effective.

Most of the nearest wizards and witches had fallen back, confused, either blinking or babbling depending on how old they were and how invested in the traditions of coldness and stillness. Draco saw a few wincing and holding their hands over their eyes, but he saw no actual injuries or burns. He forced his breath to pass calmly through his lips instead of in a sharp exhalation of relief. Harry hurting someone would have been as difficult to explain away as his devouring of Daphne's magic.

Lucius stood not far from them, his hands folded behind his back, his head held stiff and his neck straight. Just from that, Draco knew his father was furious. He slipped to the side, to shield Harry from a physical attack if need be, but refused to respond otherwise. If his father had wanted to avoid anger and public embarrassment, he should have realized what would most likely happen when he tried to ambush Harry and Draco with the memories.

Narcissa stood beside Lucius, her wand raised as though she had tried to halt the destruction of the panels and been unable to. Her face bore no expression, but her eyes glinted. Draco recognized that, too. His mother had discovered something about the situation from Harry's reaction, something she had not known before and did not like. Draco wished he dared to sneer openly at her. _Did she imagine the bond between Harry and I was weak? Or that I would abandon him the moment anyone else saw him eating my enemy's magic? _

Well, Harry had thought the same thing, so perhaps Draco should not dismiss that as such a ridiculous supposition.

"Really," said a mild voice from the doorway. "No need to put on such a show for me, Mr. Malfoy. When you sent me an invitation, I expected to be only another guest, not the guest of honor."

Draco turned to stare. Charlemagne Diggory was standing in the doorway of the room, his gaze mild as he looked from one face to another.

"Mr. Diggory," Lucius said, springing from fury to glacial control in a moment. "This display was not planned, but was the work of our illustrious Mr. Potter. It seems he does not know his own strength."

Draco resisted the urge to snarl. There was no way they could have planned something like this; Lucius would not have condoned such a disruption to his party no matter what the risk. But they were seizing the chance to embarrass Harry as smoothly as if they had.

_Yes, my father and Diggory have worked together before. And I'll just bet that the deal is power for Lucius in exchange for his financial and social support of our beloved Ministerial candidate._

"I have often found that to be true about Mr. Potter," Diggory said, his voice soft and rueful, and glanced sideways at Harry. "Potter?" he added gently. "Do you want to join the conversation and tell us why you saw fit to disrupt a social event at which you are an invited guest?"

Harry just held Draco harder, and Draco sighed. Harry wouldn't be up to answering Diggory anytime soon. Draco's answering for him would look suspicious, but Draco didn't see that he exactly had a choice.

"Harry's had very little chance to learn how to behave at functions like these, given his natural modesty," he said, and rubbed soothing circles on Harry's back. The other man's breathing had deepened and smoothed out. Draco hoped that meant he'd be ready for the task of defending himself before they left. "So, of course, the first time he ventured into a pure-blood social circle, he mistook some of the cues offered him. I'd call what just happened an overreaction, but a justified one."

"Really?" Diggory smiled at Draco, a fox's grin rife with the longing to bite. "What just happened, then?"

"My parents attempted to embarrass him publicly," Draco said, mildly offended that Diggory thought he had trapped him. _I'm not as knowledgeable about politics as I could have been, but I'm not so stupid as to be more specific than a question like that needs. _"It's no worse than that bint he dated some time ago threatening to sell indecent pictures of him to the _Prophet_, I suppose, but certainly no better."

"I'm certain that Lucius Malfoy would never wittingly commit such a gaffe," said Diggory, and his smile grew brighter yet again. "Potter must have overreacted, as you yourself admitted. And such a—_blast_—of magic is not justified under any circumstances."

Draco rolled his eyes, not caring who saw the gesture. He was long since past tired of the games that his parents played, that the Ministry played, that Diggory played. He tried to remind himself that it was important to save Harry's reputation in the eyes of the people attending the party, but considering this had been a trap from the beginning, who knew whether Lucius had actually invited any of the charity founders Harry was so anxious to meet?

No, the exhaustion had turned into rippling, clenching irritation that invaded the lowest levels of Draco's belly and being. He stared back at Diggory with narrowed eyes and tightened his hands on Harry until the other man shifted in protest and looked up, blinking. His face was still dazed, but rapidly returning to sanity. Draco positioned himself in front of Harry mostly as a precaution. Perhaps Harry was far enough gone to react to insults with spells.

And then he let his words fly.

"You would never think any of Harry's reactions justified, Diggory, not with the restrictions you've tried to place on him," Draco said. "You hate and fear his magic, and you've been worried he would throw his political support against you from the beginning. Funnily enough, the idea might never have occurred to him if you hadn't suggested it. So here he is, trying to maneuver against you with your tactics. And my parents are helping you instead of me, their own son, because they care more about seeing me subdued than about seeing me happy. And _none _of you care about what's best for the wizarding world."

Their audience had gone silent and fascinated, watching them. Diggory's smile had frozen on his face.

"Your hostility is also an overreaction, Draco," he murmured. "I have offered you opportunities to compromise with me. I—"

"Oh, do shut up, Diggory," Draco said, fed up beyond measure. "You've also tried to put restrictions on the Desire potion out of nothing more than fear. It hasn't disrupted your campaign yet, but you fear it _might_, and that's good enough for you. When none of your tactics worked—not direct attack, not an indirect approach through the Potions committee, not buying up my debts through Cordelia—did you sit back, reassess your fear, and decide that you might have been wrong to interfere with us? _No_. You simply allied with my parents."

Shaking, he turned back to face his parents. Narcissa had one hand to her mouth, the way she might look when a badly-trained house-elf spilled something on the rug. Lucius glared, his eyes like two chips of ice. Draco shivered with another spasm of weary revulsion.

"I'm not the boy you drove out of the house two years ago," he told them flatly. "I've learned more about my feelings since then, more about what I want and what I'm willing to risk to keep what I want. You thought that embarrassment was the best way to force me away from Harry?" He closed his eyes and blew out a blast of air, which made the strands of hair in front of his face waver away from his lips. "You don't know me at all. That's not surprising. What _is _is your continued insistence that you know what's best for me, in spite of all the evidence."

He slung an arm around Harry's shoulders. "You're the only person in this room I can trust, the only person in this room I actually want to spend time with," he said to Harry, loud enough for everyone to hear. "That's an excellent reason to leave together."

And before the astonished eyes watching them, he led a limping Harry away from the Manor he had spent most of the day nerving himself to enter. When he passed into the open, there was a sense of incredible lightness, but it was not fear he shed. It was the company of people he had found intolerable. He drew Harry closer, fixed his mind on an image of the alley behind Harry's building, and Apparated.

* * *

Harry recovered himself fully when they stood in the corridor outside his flat. He blinked, and a filmy covering that had seemingly wrapped his mind tore away, exposing his thoughts to fresh air. He hissed and rubbed his mouth with the back of one hand. "How badly did I fuck things up?" he murmured.

"No worse than I did," Draco said. "But that's one of those things we need to talk about. If you'll let down the wards, please?" He nodded to the door, which crawled with more protective spells than ever since Daphne had succeeded in cutting through them and stealing Draco from right under Harry's nose.

"What did you do?" Harry asked, struggling to remember, whilst the wards folded or fell away in front of them one by one. The past hour seemed to have dissolved into mist in his mind. He could remember the powerful drain as the magic left his eyes, and the scent of Draco's hair and the warmth of his skin when he collapsed against him, but the words he knew had been spoken had become little more than a buzz.

"Told Diggory off," Draco said. "My parents, too. It felt good."

Harry turned to stare at him, though he could only stare for a moment before Draco ducked under his arm and into the flat. He was moving more easily than before, Harry noted, though he was taking deep breaths that made Harry wonder if some more memories of his time under Daphne's "care" had cropped up. "Why did you do that?" he demanded, stepping in after Draco and beginning to repair the wards. "You were the one who emphasized the need to be careful, who told me even the colors of our robes would send an important message—"

"That was before I found out my parents and Diggory are working together," Draco said, and flopped down on the couch, his head tilting back and his mouth opening as he gasped in air. Harry subdued his impulse to drag answers out of Draco right now, and sat down quietly beside him instead, rubbing his shoulder with one hand. Draco opened one eye and gave him an exhausted smile. "His showing up right when you would have been most embarrassed, had you allowed my parents to continue showing those memories, rather proved it."

"What's in it for Lucius?" Harry asked, but knew the answer even before Draco gave it.

"Power. Of course. The only thing he wants." Draco snorted and shut his eyes again. "I thought for a few moments he actually wanted me back, but no, it's only that he hates seeing anyone escape his control, and he hates failure. If I returned to him after all this time and submitted to him, that would be an admission he was right and his way of life really was best. He can never compromise with someone who opposes him. And if he works with a man who wants to destroy both my work and you…well, he wouldn't care about that, as long as it gave him back his toy unharmed."

Harry winced when he heard the bitterness flowing through Draco's words. This was not the way Harry thought parent-child relationships should work, but it was too obviously the way the Malfoys' _did._

"And what do you think will happen now?" he asked, tightening the clasp of his hand on Draco's shoulder, and moving so Draco could lean against him if he wanted.

"God knows," Draco said, and then yawned. "They may very well try to paint us as lunatics. Or they may say that my words and your magic indicate we're coming to a break, that we cause each other stress rather than heal each other." He swiveled his head and looked at Harry then. "But you know what? I don't really care."

"Draco—"

"No, Harry, I mean it." Draco's eyes were so bright he looked feverish, a sharp dot of color burning in either cheek. "I'm _sick _of politics. We can't fight as well as Diggory and my parents can, either, because we don't have their money or their contacts. And yet we haven't done too badly, have we, even distracted by Daphne and with fewer weapons? Diggory's plan to try and turn the Potions Committee against us didn't work. The strongest strike against me—the destruction of my shop and most of the stock of Desire potion—wasn't something he planned. And we've taken away his most powerful ally. We did all that using tactics that weren't his. I say we keepusing tactics that aren't his. No more attending parties, no more pretending that we have no emotions. That's the way my parents raised me, and that's the way I fought against and escaped, because I was so tired of pretending my passions didn't really matter to me."

Harry shivered and licked his lips. "But my keeping my passions at bay with my potion helped us when we went up against the Potions Committee—"

"Our trust and faith in each other helped more. What little we had of it at the time, given that I was lying to you about Daphne and your emotions were still at bay." Draco leaned forwards, his hands locking on Harry's robes, his eyes searching his frantically. "We can still plan like that. Just—just say that you won't be angry at me for my outburst. Say that we'll fight like Gryffindors, not like Slytherins."

Harry stared at him, a thrill of an emotion that felt very much like pride moving through him. "Are you sure you want to do this?" he asked quietly. "It'll mean public embarrassment for us both."

"Yes, I'm sure." Draco's arms shook, a fine trembling Harry thought came more from frustration than anything else. "I can't do this anymore, Harry, watching my every step and wondering what will happen next, using tactics that my enemies have perfected. Maybe, when I'm stronger, I can go back to it. But not for the moment. I want to be _open_. Our enemies can always invent rumors about us, but we don't have to make it easy for them by trying to conceal secrets they can easily discover."

"The secret of what my magic can do is one I still want to conceal," Harry said.

Draco sighed. "Yes, yes, that one, then," he said, and his hands clenched in Harry's robe again. "I'm not saying we need to run into the streets babbling every embarrassing thing we've done in our lives, Harry. I'm just saying that I'd rather spend time brewing the Desire potion, preparing to rebuild and reopen my shop, and surviving Diggory's run for the Ministry than figuring out every little thing Diggory wants or my parents want."

"Perfectly understandable," Harry said, and pulled him close, his eyes shutting as he draped his arms around Draco's neck. Draco uttered a soft whimper and pressed his face into Harry's chest. "Even if I do need to continue offering to sponsor charities in order to get the money we need to rebuild your shop."

Draco said nothing, but Harry thought his lips moved into a smile against the cloth.

* * *

Draco waited until he was sure Harry was asleep to open the envelope he had felt crowded into the outer pocket of his robes. It was heavy only with the weight of his own dread; when he opened it, it contained a single slim sheet of parchment, twice folded over.

Draco held it up to the light of his wand. In his mother's neat handwriting, the parchment said, _It is not too late for reconciliation. Give up Potter in public and request a private interview with your father, using a white owl. It would not take more than a few minutes of groveling for him to take you back._

No signature, of course. Narcissa would not want to put her name to anything that might be seen as a plea.

Draco touched his wand to the parchment and murmured almost lazily, "_Incendio_." The paper burst into flames, which Draco made hotter with a few more taps of his wand, so they consumed the letter completely. Then he cast another spell that banished the ashes from his bedclothes and lay back on the pillow, his hands folded behind his head. Harry had left open the door of the bedroom as always, so that he could hear Draco call if he needed anything; at the moment, Draco was glad of the ability it gave him to hear Harry's soft, steady breaths.

_I'm not interested in anything my parents can offer me at the moment. If they ever offer reconciliation on my own terms and I honestly feel I can trust them, I may accept. But that will be a long time coming._

Draco closed his eyes. _If I do not want reconciliation with my parents, what do I want?_

The answers were not slow in coming. _Harry. Fame and money from selling the Desire potion. The ability to live on my own or with Harry, as I choose. Freedom from the nightmares that plague me._

Draco felt a small smile curve his lips. He could take the steps to achieve the first of those goals tomorrow.

* * *

An insistent rapping on the window woke Harry perhaps an hour before he would have chosen to rise himself. He lay listening to it and wondering if the owl would give up and depart, but the thought it might deprive Draco of much-needed sleep caused him to stumble off the couch, swearing sleepily.

The owl was a large, magnificent dark brown bird he didn't recognize, who swooped into the flat and sat down on the windowsill with a solid thump suggesting he didn't intend to go anywhere until he'd been fed. Nor would he let Harry near the letter until Harry showed him a nearly full packet of owl treats and extended a few between cautious fingers.

The letter was sealed inside creamy parchment, marked with swirls of gold that made Harry raise his eyebrows. The seal itself wasn't one he recognized: a thin bird, perhaps a stylized stork, standing against a tree and a circle. Perhaps the circle was the disk of the full moon or the rising sun. Harry had never paid a great deal of attention to pure-blood symbolism.

When he tore the seal open, a flicker of power made his knuckles tingle before it subsided. Someone had charmed the letter to sting anyone but him. Wondering if it had been keyed to his magical signature or something more subtle, Harry shook the letter in the parchment into his hand.

It was short, and the handwriting itself arched forwards to the edge of the paper, as though the writer didn't believe in taking any time to straighten her lines.

_Harry Potter and Draco Malfoy: _

_Your performance last night at that pompous party has deeply impressed me. I have been looking for a way to get back at Lucius for an insult he gave me last year. Perhaps we could help each other. I await your owl._

_Millicent Bulstrode._


	6. Millicent Bulstrode

Thank you again for all the reviews!

_Chapter Six—Millicent Bulstrode_

"And you think we can trust her?" Harry was trying not to whinge, but it seemed to him that Draco had made a decision on the letter from Bulstrode far too fast, not only owling her back with an acceptance of her offer but letting her set up their meeting place.

Draco turned his head and slowly regarded him. Harry bit his lip at the strained look on his face.

"If I didn't think we could trust her, would I really have suggested this meeting?" Draco demanded quietly, leaning in towards Harry. "Do you think I would _willingly _have put you into danger, Harry? After the rescue you brought me through? After I risked my public reputation and my safety to defend you at the Manor?" His hand ran through Harry's hair for a moment, and then he leaned in far enough to kiss Harry's ear. "I wouldn't say Millicent is especially trustworthy, but yes, I think the risk is minimal."

Harry relaxed in spite of himself, and turned his head so that he nuzzled into Draco's neck. "You make me feel better without even trying," he whispered. "I've never known anyone who could do that."

Draco laughed, and some of the tension in his body drained away. He still had to huddle down to talk to Harry, since they were wearing heavy cloaks to disguise themselves, but his tone and the expression on his face made up for the softness of his voice. "They weren't paying attention, then. I don't think you're that hard to read."

"At least not with someone I want to open up to, no," Harry said.

Draco stared at him for a moment, and Harry wondered if he had a piece of food stuck between his teeth. But before he could ask, a firm footfall sounded behind them, and a husky voice said, "Potter? Malfoy?"

Draco turned around at once, his muscles coiled. After the adventure with Greengrass, Harry couldn't really blame him. He knew that Draco's hand would be clasped around his wand in his sleeve. He leaned his shoulder against Draco's and tapped his wand against the small of Draco's back, letting him know Harry was on guard, too.

The woman facing them wore a heavy cloak and a purple flower pinned in a coil of dark hair that extended from beneath the cowl, just as she had told them she would. They were getting some strange looks, Harry knew, but since they were in a Muggle park on the outskirts of London and a light drizzle was falling, there weren't as many as there might have been. She nodded at them and said, "Bulstrode. Let's go somewhere more comfortable."

She started to turn away, but Draco's voice said, frozen and implacable, "Your pardon, but we've encountered enough tricks to last a lifetime. If you'll turn around and pull your hood back so that we can see your face? Careful. You do have two wands aimed at you, remember."

"Of course," the woman said, and pivoted smoothly on one heel that made Harry wonder uneasily about her skill in physical combat. She pulled the hood back from the right side of her face, and Harry caught a glimpse of a heavy cheek and jawbone, shadowed by a long, straight nose. She had perhaps the thickest hair he'd ever seen, and darker eyes than he remembered, squinted slightly from the sudden intrusion of rain into the hood.

Draco exhaled sharply. "It's Millicent," he said to Harry.

"Of course it is," said Millicent, who apparently objected to being talked about as if she wasn't there. "Now come with me. No one followed me from what I could tell, but I'm not so sure about you." She walked out of the park, past the small stand of mournful-looking trees in the center of it and north along a sluggish street. Harry followed, trying to memorize their path in case Bulstrode turned on them after all.

Millicent led them through a winding route, up alleys and side streets and through another park, before she settled at a small series of tables covered by umbrellas. Harry looked around, but couldn't tell which of the small cluster of shops and restaurants nearby the tables belonged to. He supposed it didn't matter, as long as no one Muggle came close enough to hear their conversation. As he and Draco sat down at the table across from Millicent, he cast a privacy ward nonetheless, keeping his wand beneath the edge of his cloak sleeve.

Millicent cast back her hood before Draco had settled himself and took a long, satisfied breath of fresh air. She wasn't pretty, Harry thought, but neither did she really resemble the husky, trollish girl he remembered from back in Hogwarts. She didn't bother concealing the strength in her features, that was all.

She leaned forwards, studying them pointedly until Harry and Draco both pulled back their hoods. Then she smiled and nodded. "Good," she said. "So. I want to get back at Lucius. It sounds like you want him to stop interfering with you. I can help you with that if you help me."

"What did he do to insult you?" Draco asked. Harry leaned back, keeping his wand aimed at Millicent under the shelter of his sleeve, and let Draco guide the conversation. He was the one who knew this woman best, and despite what he'd said about giving up Slytherin tactics, Harry was more than happy to leave dealing with the actual Slytherins up to him.

"Publicized my heritage," Millicent, her lip curling slightly. "And did it in such a way that others snickered over it."

Draco frowned. Harry resisted the urge to reach out and smooth the lines away from his forehead. "I don't understand. Has your father's family come under some scandal? I haven't been paying as much attention to pure-blood politics in the past few years as I should, but—"

Millicent shook her head, barely hard enough to ripple the heavy waves of hair that clung around her face. "My mother is Muggleborn," she said. "My father took steps to conceal that so I could attend Hogwarts as a pure-blood, and he was thankful he had when I was Sorted into Slytherin. I'm not unhappy about people learning that; it was inevitable at some point. But the way Lucius looked at me when he found out…" She exhaled, and Harry thought he saw a flash of rage in her eyes that made him wary. In at least one way, she would be harder to cross wands with than Daphne Greengrass had been. Millicent seemed like someone who wouldn't waste time playing with her prey. "And the way he spoke of me, and encouraged others to speak of me," she finished. "I've had enough of that. I know now that I can't take revenge on him along the channels he controls. I want to take revenge on him through you."

She said it so frankly that Harry couldn't even bristle. Yes, she would use them, but they would use her, too, and there would be no prickly, passionless lying, the way that Draco's parents went about such things.

* * *

Draco now understood much better than he had why Millicent might wish to contact them. He nodded gravely and stroked his fingers along his lips, concealing his smile for a moment, so that Millicent wouldn't think they were laughing at her.

"So you want your name associated with ours when we begin brewing the Desire potion once more," he murmured. "And you want Lucius to know _why _you're helping us."

"Yes." Millicent clenched her hands in the motion she might use when wrapping them around a warm drink, and then tossed her head back, snorting a little, as though to defy an unheard taunt. Her hands closed tighter, and Draco took a moment to be grateful that she didn't have his wrist between them right now. Millicent had always been strong, to the point where some of the other Slytherins had speculated on her having troll or giant blood. "No doubt he thinks his insult forgivable. He invited me to the party last night, after all." She lifted and then dropped her shoulders. "This is poor vengeance, but the best I can take."

"You should know," Draco said, deciding that honesty was the only way he could repay Millicent for what she was about to do, "that we have more enemies than my parents. What I said about Diggory and my father last night was entirely true. Diggory's had it in for us for some time now, and it'll be worse now that we've managed to deprive him of Cordelia Nott's support. If you support us, you'll be struggling against him."

"I have no grudge against the Diggory family," said Millicent, "but neither do I have any particular fondness for them. And I have no quarrels with the way Shacklebolt's running the Ministry. I'll support you regardless."

Draco nodded, and managed to keep himself from looking relieved only with an effort. Yes, the Gryffindors had a point about honesty and fairness. He would rather act in the open like this than pick his way blindly through a thicket of hidden suspicions, emotions, allegiances, and insults. "Then I must know how you plan to support us. I hadn't thought the Bulstrodes were that rich."

"We aren't," said Millicent. "_I_ am. My mother's family wasn't badly off at all, and her parents were more interested in their witchy daughter than they ever let on. My mother did—some stupid things, let's say, and alienated them, but my grandfather's interest in me never faltered. I've made some money from the investments he encouraged me to make. He died last year, and a good portion of his personal possessions passed to me." Millicent shrugged once and then let her hands sprawl palm-up on the table, as though to demonstrate her good faith. "I can fund your Desire brewing for a time, and I have a warehouse you can convert into a shop. Not everything you need, but it should give you a foothold, and given how Desire sells, you can build up from there."

Draco nodded, well-satisfied. Millicent had gained her wealth from the Muggle world, then, rather like Daphne, but she was going to help instead of hurt them. The irony pleased him.

"I have to know something before we conclude this alliance," said Harry quietly.

Millicent turned to face him. "And I have questions," she said. "An answer for an answer?"

Harry nodded, his eyes narrowed. Draco bit the corner of his lip to keep from chuckling. Millicent was more open than most of the people he had known in Slytherin, true, but she had still survived seven years in the House. Harry should have known better than to think he would get something for nothing.

"What was your father's connection to the Death Eaters?" Harry asked. "Would he ask you to stop associating with me and Draco because of that? No matter which side of the war he stood on, he's likely to have objections to one of us."

Millicent smiled like a satisfied cat. "He was smart enough to stay out of the conflict altogether," she said. "A few donations at the appropriate times to both sides, and the right words, flattered them and made them ignore him. He won't care that I'm associating with you two. He's more likely to start inquiring why I haven't paid Lucius back for the insult yet, if I don't start my repayment soon."

"But he won't do it himself?" Harry demanded, leaning forwards. "He won't interfere in this?"

Millicent shook her head. "He's protective of my mother, but the insult was offered to me. I'm the one who should have the pleasure of vengeance."

Harry nodded. "Your question, then."

"What exactly were the memories that the Malfoys would have shown last night?" Millicent asked. "You destroyed the panels with an impressive blast of magic, but I doubt that merely spreading the word of your power would have satisfied them."

* * *

Harry didn't punch Millicent in the jaw, but it was a near thing. Because of course she would ask that, and he ought to have been better-prepared, and he did his best not to scold himself or snap at her. Instead, he leaned back against the support of the chair and counted his breaths until he thought himself fit to respond.

"Draco was—captive," he said, carefully picking his way around the words. After all, Draco hadn't mentioned this to Millicent so far, so there were probably some secrets he didn't want her knowing. "I rescued him from the witch holding him. In doing so, I made her a Squib." _There. That should satisfy her without revealing enough details to be dangerous._

Millicent's eyes widened, and Harry half-expected her to stand and bolt away from the table. Instead, she leaned forwards and said, "Could you do that to Lucius?"

Harry blinked twice. Millicent's breath was coming faster, and her face shone as if with the reflected light of a particularly impressive firework display. Harry resisted the temptation to shake his head or say something disparaging about Slytherins and their lust for power.

"I don't particularly _want_ to do it to Lucius," said Harry shortly, and shifted his weight so that he could reach his wand without stretching. "I can only imagine what would happen if it became common knowledge that I could. Azkaban? A new law passed that specifically ensured I couldn't cast spells above a certain level?" He shivered, and Draco pressed against him and squeezed him with an arm slung around his back. Harry sighed, and then smiled at Draco. "It's enough that I did it once."

Millicent didn't say anything for long moments. Then she said, "What conditions do you need to summon that magic?"

Harry didn't mind mentioning that. Perhaps it would serve as a safeguard against Millicent betraying them. "Intense anger," he said. "And, lately, danger to Draco."

Draco stiffened against him. Harry wondered why. Perhaps he simply didn't like the mention of his weakness in front of anyone else. Harry turned his head so his hair swept against Draco's cheek in apology, and Draco relaxed a little.

"All right," said Millicent. "It's enough to know that you can defend him, so I'm not likely to lose my allies suddenly if the Malfoys attack you."

"Are they that desperate?" Harry asked quietly, because it was not the kind of question he could ask Draco, considering his relationship with his parents. "Would they try to kill their son rather than suffer him to stay free of them?"

"Kill?" Millicent gnawed one of her thumbnails. "I don't think so. After all, if their son dies, the Malfoy line can't continue." Scorn flavored her voice; Harry supposed she had a reason for scorning pure-blood politics. "But they probably wouldn't hesitate to kidnap him if they could, or use Imperius on him. Or a suggestion potion."

"Neither of my parents are brewer enough to make a suggestion potion," Draco murmured.

"But they have enough money to hire the best brewers," Millicent snapped back, and sighed in a long-suffering manner. "I see why you kept company with Granger during school, Potter," she added then. "Someone has to do the thinking, and two men together are capable of thinking about only one thing."

"Hermione's still with me," said Harry. "At the moment, she's investigating something to do with the enemy who kidnapped Draco." Hermione had contacted him that morning admitting she'd had no luck finding other people whom Greengrass might have sent memories to. Greengrass's house was loaded with spells, traps, webs, wards, and magic loaded on top of magic, all intent on guarding her secrets. Hermione thought it might take her months to search through the entire mess, but she had a few clues she had decided to unravel. She hoped to have some information for them in two days at the latest.

"Excellent," said Millicent. "I'd like to have her help on this as well."

Harry met her eyes and said, "If she wants to. And once she finishes the project she's currently working on."

For the first time, Millicent gave what could be considered a normal smile and held up a hand. "You're still the Granger handler, Potter," she said. "God forbid she should join the fray before she's ready."

She sat back and pulled a mirror from an inner pocket of her robes. Harry blinked—he hadn't thought she seemed like one to preen—but instead Millicent angled the mirror so it showed the scene over her shoulder, and then nodded once in satisfaction. "No one's found us yet, but I don't think we should linger," she said, rising. "I'll send you the Apparition coordinates for the building that's going to become your next shop, and I'll start circulating the talk about your opening up your business again, Malfoy."

"And what should we do in the meantime?" Harry felt compelled to ask, standing. He didn't like to take orders from Millicent, but it sounded as if she wanted them to simply begin brewing the Desire potion, and there was a problem with that. "After all, if we go to apothecaries or Diagon Alley to buy the ingredients for the potion, we're likely to find ourselves blocked, followed, or ambushed."

"Owl me a list of the ingredients," said Millicent smartly. "I'm not a skilled brewer myself, but I did spend a few summers working for my aunt, who is. I can recognize ingredients well enough, and tell good from bad." She reached across the table and patted Harry on the shoulder, strongly enough to make him sway on his feet. "Don't worry, Potter. We'll settle this in time."

"I'm not _worried_," Harry spluttered, feeling slightly stunned. Associating with Millicent was going to be more like associating with Hermione than he had ever thought possible—a Hermione who didn't have the other one's filter on certain uncomfortable ideas and statements.

"You should be," said Millicent, raising an eyebrow, "within reason. Diggory and the Malfoys are formidable opponents, and in particular, you should worry about Narcissa Malfoy, who will go to lengths I don't think Lucius would ever envision in order to get her son back." She nodded to Draco. "Malfoy."

"You just _said—_" Harry began.

"Learn to read the nuances of my voice, Gryffindor!" Millicent called, and trotted off, presumably to some more sheltered Apparition point that wouldn't be in sight of Muggles.

"I want to watch somewhere, from a _distance_, when she meets Hermione," Harry muttered.

"That will be worth watching," Draco agreed, and there was a softness to his voice that brought Harry's head around immediately. Draco was leaning on him as if he were tired, but his gaze was sharp and direct. "Can we return to your flat? There's a list of ingredients I'll need you to fetch."

"If we'll be stopped seeking ingredients for the Desire potion—"

Draco laughed beneath his breath. "I promise, none of the ingredients for the potion I plan to brew are shared in common with the Desire potion. And you can cast a glamour before you go." He must have seen some sign of hesitation in Harry's face, because he added encouragingly, "Please, Harry. This is something I need to do."

Harry nodded once, then went seeking for an Apparition point of their own.

* * *

Draco regarded the ingredients before him with a jaundiced eye. Oh, there _appeared _to be nothing wrong with the beetle eyes that Harry had chosen, or the hippogriff feathers, or the powdered robin's eggshell, but Harry caused disasters around himself without meaning to.

He shook his head, reminded himself that he had a master brewer's senses and should have been able to tell if something was wrong immediately, and picked up three beetle eyes. They dropped into the cauldron filled with water, and the water immediately turned thick and pink, which was as it should be.

Draco relaxed after that, and it was as if he had never been away from brewing in the first place. His hands rose and fell with the same precision as always; he knew exactly which ingredient should go into the cauldron next, and how it should be mashed, chopped, picked through, or stirred. It was nothing like the intimate, intense experience brewing the Desire potion was when he shared it with Harry, but that had its good side, too. Draco doubted this potion would ever need so much magic, and he would have had to explain its nature to Harry before they made it, and then Harry would have been too nervous to do a good job.

Finally, he cast the last bit of eggshell into the cauldron, and the liquid swirled and turned a pure, serene blue. Draco relaxed completely and glanced up when someone rapped hesitantly on the bedroom door.

Harry put his head around the door. "Millicent's owled us with the Apparition coordinates and some of the ingredients for Desire," he said quietly. "But I thought you might want dinner first."

Draco smiled a little, but gestured to the potion. "This doesn't react well with food," he said. "I want us to drink it first, allow ourselves a half-hour to recover from the effects, and then eat. Then we'll take Pepper-Up. I intend to inspect the building with as much alertness as I could muster."

Harry came a step or two into the bedroom, chewing his lip. "I assumed this was a healing potion for you," he said. "To soothe nightmares, maybe. Why do you want me to take it, too?"

Draco sighed and dipped one of the clean glass vials he'd kept about for the Desire potion into the cauldron, filling it three-quarters of the way with the blue potion. He did the same thing with a second vial. Harry fidgeted, but didn't interrupt.

"When you spoke of protecting me today," Draco said, turning around and extending the first vial to Harry, "I realized that you spoke as if you were assuming you'd always need to do so. And I have healed more than that. But I'm still not comfortable talking with you about the extent of my mental injuries. Or my conflict with my parents, for that matter. And I still don't always understand you, either. Why are you so afraid of your own magic? Why did it affect you so strongly last night?"

"I'd be happy to explain that, if you want me to," said Harry, his voice rising slightly. He glared at the vial of blue potion as if he would upend it rather than accept it from Draco's hand.

"In this case, I don't think you have the right words, and I don't have the right temper for listening," said Draco. "We need to understand each other outside of immediate disasters, Harry, in order to survive. My parents and Diggory know each other better than we do. This potion will enable us to travel into each other's minds for the space of ten minutes. I promise, I'll only look for the answers to the questions that are most important and which I don't think you can explain to me." He looked steadily at Harry. "And I trust you to do the same thing with me."

"Is it like Legilimency?" Harry asked. His face had paled, and he accepted the vial with a hand that shook slightly. "Both Voldemort and Snape used that on me, and it hurt each time."

Draco hissed, an old wave of exasperation at Severus's tactics flooding him. The man had been a brilliant brewer, and an absolutely miserable teacher of anything but his chosen subject. "If Legilimency hurts the victim, it's being used with sadistic intent," he said. "There'll be no pain, Harry, I promise. We'll need recovery time just to get used to being separated after being so close." He met and held Harry's eyes. "Unless you don't trust me."

Harry responded by tipping the vial down his throat. Draco smiled slightly and swallowed his own dose of potion.

And then the world peeled away from him, and he was dropped straight into Harry's thoughts.


	7. All That Glitters

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_Chapter Seven—All That Glitters_

Harry gasped softly as he was swirled into the waters of Draco's mind. He had been prepared for a stream of thoughts, memories, and emotions, the way he had been when Snape used Legilimency on him; even if the potion was not like Legilimency in the pain it caused, how many different ways were there to read a mind? But it was not like that at all.

He tipped down a waterfall, as blue-green as the Desire potion, into the midst of a surging sea, which sent Draco's memories rippling into him the way that salt water might creep beneath the fabric of any clothes he was wearing when he was dumped into it. Suddenly, he knew things about Draco, complete and shining, as if they were experiences he had lived through himself, recovered from behind a Memory Charm.

He shuddered as he endured the terror of Daphne Greengrass's torture: knives driven into his arse, spells that ripped his nipples from his chest and then regrew them for the same thing to happen again, his fingers bent backwards with the extremity of pleasure until they broke, pulses of pain and pleasure alternating until his mind grew as thin as a pulled wire and as liable to snap. Draco had discovered this all at once when Daphne had let his memories return to him all at once, shortly before Harry rescued him. Harry would have wrapped his arms around himself and curled up into a ball, if he could have remembered where his arms were.

And then the current of Draco's mind turned and swirled like an undertow, and Harry _understood_, from the inside, the pure-blood pride that had sustained Draco through the first fifteen years of his life, and which he had only begun to question in his sixteenth, when Voldemort used him against his parents. In complete emotional and intellectual sympathy, Harry knew why Draco's parents considered people like Hermione Mudbloods instead of Muggleborns, why they were so determined to preserve magic and their heritage as they had always known it instead of changing it even a little, and the horror that crawled up Draco's spine when he knew the Dark Lord for a half-blood and yet saw him welcomed into Malfoy Manor. Bright as Voldemort's eyes, sheer and hard as diamond, that pride _was _the world.

And when it began to crack, as had happened for Draco when he had to let Death Eaters into the school and again when he was forced to torture people under Voldemort's command, the world cracked as well.

The elder Malfoys had more practice at repairing such fissures; they had lived longer, through experiences, especially the Dark Lord's first defeat, that had made them question the utility of such ideals. But each time, the thought of what they would be facing if they tried to change their beliefs—the thought of how _wrong _they would have to acknowledge they had been—gave them mortar. They smoothed the cracks over with that fear, and once again became what they had been raised to be.

Draco was younger, without the weight of years to absorb his experiences, and too many of them had happened to him over too short a period of time. He went further. The cracks became a hole, and revealed the whole glittering surface of his existence as ice, not diamond. It fell away from beneath him, and Draco created a new set of ideals to replace it, based on what he observed around him, and a hard practicality that told him pure-bloods could not afford to pretend Muggleborns were not just as intelligent and just as strongly magical.

And _that _was the real source of the resentment and fury that bubbled between him and his parents. Draco was an intolerable challenge to his parents' way of life, a silent rebuke for their failure to change. They had thought survival through that change was not possible, but Draco had managed it; why couldn't they?

For Draco, his parents were a likewise intolerable temptation, and a bastion of stupidity. He did not _want _to become what he had been, what they still were, but at the same time, it would be so much easier. He would have people to support him in it, whereas he had to build his own future road alone right now. He wouldn't have to sicken of the sound of his own voice, or doubt his every action. And he hated this indecision in himself, this half-regret for what he had left behind, and battled against it with a ferocity that likewise spilled out onto his parents.

Harry wished he knew where his hands were after that revelation, so that he could scrub himself clean of the feeling of having understood Draco's bigotry, even for a moment. It was one thing to know racists were human, and another to let them transform you into a racist yourself.

Then he remembered it was Draco's _prior _bigotry. Draco had known his parents—a treasure Harry would have given half his life to attain—and still turned his back on and broken away from them when he realized they were wrong.

Harry felt himself hurled over a waterfall again, but this time it was composed solely of his own emotions. He opened his eyes, shivering, and found himself gazing at Draco's face with wonder.

He had not realized he would _know _the moment when he fell in love.

* * *

Draco looked around in shock. He was used to finding himself in a realm of wind or water when he used this potion: a moving place, where the memories could easily be absorbed.

Instead, he stood in a heavy cave of gold, with yellow rocks glittering around him, and tongues of fire flickering up the polished stone walls. A dragon's hoard loaded every corner. Draco found himself hardly able to move with the weight of the memories and emotions that suddenly descended on him.

He held the things he wanted to know steadfastly in the forefront of his own mind, however. The potion would react with unconscious intentions if he did not, and show him whatever he most wanted to know about in Harry's mind—but that was different from what he needed to know.

_Why does he fear his own magic so much?_

The question swirled into being in front of him, in blazing blue letters that were unlike any other result Draco had ever seen from this potion. He blinked and braced his back against the nearest basalt wall as the blue of the letters drained away, replaced by gold, and then the light shone directly into his thoughts, projected there by a force that reminded him of sunlight shining through a prism.

It was not words that answered him, but emotion, and a vision. Ginny Weasley was before him, enchained and encircled by shadows—and he had to think of her as Ginny instead of any derogatory name, because that was the way Harry thought of her, and he was mad with love and panic and jealousy and rage and lust. The shadows wavered up and down, extending glittering jaws. And then they vanished, and Ginny was left intact, but she looked at Harry with fear that broke off part of him.

The horror that he might hurt someone he loved ran like a current beneath everything Harry did. It always had, Draco learned, as he was tossed rapidly back through glittering, gold-edged memories. Harry was good at Shield Charms, the Patronus Charm, the Disarming Charm—_defensive _magic. That was what he wanted to be good at. That was what he wanted to wield, because wielding it mean that his first impulse, his first instinct, was to protect other people.

He needed to be someone who protected them. Being a murderer first—which was the way his mind phrased it, and not the way Draco would have phrased it—was unacceptable.

But right before and behind and under those realizations ran the memories of moments when Harry's magic had not been defensive. He had stabbed a diary with a basilisk fang. He had tried to cast Cruciatus twice, and succeeded once. He had used the Imperius Curse. His temper had flared, and Draco found himself, astonished, very solidly in the middle of the beating Harry had given him on the Quidditch Pitch in fifth year.

And the moment of eating Daphne's magic danced around him in those blue-edged shadows. Harry was proud because he had saved Draco with that magic, and ashamed because he had harmed someone else. The two emotions were so intertwined that there was probably no separating them. Harry could not leave the first behind because his feelings for Draco and Draco himself would not let him. He could not stop feeling the second because he still felt that he should be the perfect hero, and he should have found some solution to the problem that did not involve violence.

Draco caught his breath, filled for a moment with the temptation to explain that it wouldn't have mattered what Harry did; Daphne was mad and would have found a way to counteract anything but the most extreme measures.

But, of course, he was not speaking directly to Harry. And he doubted his words would ease Harry's shame in any case. Harry's emotions had always been the core of him, and they were extraordinarily powerful.

_Why did he take his potion? _Draco asked, the letters again blazing blue in front of him, but the potion was already moving to answer that for him, and looking into the words was like looking into the sun.

Harry had determined that certain of his emotions were the danger, and he was further determined to reject them because they had made him hurt someone he loved, instead of an enemy, which _might _just be permissible under the strict standards Harry held himself to (thought still not as good as finding a way around violence altogether). If he didn't have those emotions, then obviously he couldn't use them as justification for hurting someone. So he had turned to the potion and worked at it, and reworked it, and learned to brew even though he had no innate talent for Potions, and clung with grim determination to his goal, and weathered the disapproval of his friends.

Because not defending someone he loved, even if he had to defend them from himself, was anathema to him.

It was not all mindless Gryffindor sensibilities, as Draco had half-feared he would find when he entered Harry's thoughts. It was self-knowledge twined with self-esteem and self-loathing. Harry knew he was capable of doing things other than protecting and loving; he preferred not to think about them, but the more persistently he avoided the thoughts, the more persistently they showed up.

It was a holding of opposites in tension that Draco did not think he could have withstood, himself, and now he comprehended why Harry's mind was so still and heavy, his thoughts golden instead of water and wind. Harry's vicious self-knowledge demanded it so he could examine his thoughts before they escaped into action. If they escaped anyway, then they would be dragged back and frozen here for endless analysis.

Draco took a deep breath. He knew the potion would end at any moment and he would be brought back to Harry's face, but there was still one more thing he needed to know. _And what does he feel about me?_

Emotions hit him like boulders. Harry cared for him desperately, was wary of him, wondered frantically what had happened to him when he suffered under Daphne's torture, wanted to reconcile him with his parents, admired him physically, worried that he would not be enough for Draco—in some mysterious way; Draco could not learn the details because Harry himself did not know what he meant by that fear—and, all in all, wished for the chance to love him whilst seriously doubting that he was worthy of it or could do a good job.

And yes, there was love there, new and sudden as a cave-in.

Draco gasped, and once again was swept back to staring at Harry's face. Harry reached out and cradled his chin. He had a faint smile on his lips, a smile that had reached the backs of his eyes.

"Find what you needed?" Harry whispered.

Draco reached out and embraced him, leaning his head on Harry's shoulder. "Yes," he whispered. "Yes, I think so."

* * *

Harry escorted him to the couch in the middle of the main room of the flat—or maybe they escorted each other, because he leaned on Draco as much as Draco leaned on him, and Harry's head was spinning just like Draco's appeared to be doing, and his breath was rasping as though he had run miles. Draco breathed more quietly, but he was continually shaking back his hair and then blinking his eyes, as if he found it hard to focus on things more than a few feet away. Harry sat down, or collapsed, and then Draco collapsed on top of him, leaning partially on his lap and partially on his shoulder.

And then he _laughed_. Harry tried to think of the last time he had heard Draco laugh as freely and joyously as that.

_Maybe I've never heard it._

He looked down, running his fingers through Draco's hair, just as Draco turned around on his lap and looked up at him. Draco gave a soft smile, though Harry wasn't sure what in his face had prompted it. Already he was missing the potion, which would have told him the answer as soon as he asked the question.

Draco captured his hand and kissed the tip of his index finger. It seemed natural when he spoke, though if his tone was low and conversational, his words were ones that would have made Harry start back in a panic just an hour before.

"I felt you fall in love with me, you know. Marvelous experience. But can I ask why?"

Harry nodded and dipped his head so he could rub his cheek against Draco's neck. Draco let out a little gasp as if the maneuver were taking air away from him, but Harry still didn't pull back until he was done. Then he murmured, "Because I finally saw how much courage you have, how much resilience. I didn't think anyone could have survived pulling away from their parents and the way they were raised like that, but you did."

"So you love me for my Gryffindor traits." Draco closed his eyes and tilted his head back, smiling.

"Not exactly," said Harry. "Or not just that. I think before, I didn't understand how you could stand the separation from your parents. Maybe you were confused about it, too. Maybe you hadn't thought through all the implications of separating from them. Maybe this fight for your freedom and independence, though I think it's become something much more noble now, just started as a late adolescent rebellion."

Draco snorted into the back of his hand.

Harry went on, feeling relaxed, measured, peaceful. Probably this was just a side-effect of the potion. But if so, he intended to enjoy it as long as it lasted. And it was real _now_, after all. "And now I know you know yourself. You had to painfully confront and learn yourself, in fact, after what Voldemort did to you." Draco stiffened at the sound of the name, then relaxed again. Harry stroked the small of his back, and tried to remember if being close to anyone else had ever felt this good. "You're more mature than your parents. You're more adult than a lot of people I know. And—it's everything, Draco. The courage, and the maturity, and the passion, and the way you brew potions, and the stubbornness and determination to keep going even when someone you love scorns you or your shop collapses. Everything. I find so many things to love and admire in you that they combine together and become just one big puddle of love."

Draco laughed and rolled over whilst maintaining the same general alignment of his body, so that he now lay with his back across Harry's knees, his head draped onto the couch, grinning into Harry's face. He reached up to run a hand across his cheek and hair, then pulled him down into a kiss.

Harry went, eagerly.

And it was better than ever, and not just because he thought he could taste a fugitive sweetness from the potion covering Draco's tongue. There was more confidence in the tongue that moved under his now, and he had more confidence to lick at Draco's teeth and cheeks and tongue in return, without worrying that he was going to trigger a bad memory or do something unwelcome.

Daphne had made Draco suck various objects, and she had cut his lips and tongue and filled his mouth with noxious liquids.

She had never shared a lover's kiss with him.

Draco pulled back at last, his eyes brilliant, his face flushed and shining. His hands rose and traced circles on the sides of Harry's temples. Harry watched him closely, trying to determine the source of the extra light in his gaze, and decided it came from some final wall falling. He was seeing the light Draco carried within him, but usually shielded with thick barriers from the gaze of anyone not initiated.

Harry knew he was being absolutely soppy and poetic. He didn't care. He also didn't care that it was probably the potion that gave him the courage to say, "I'm in love with you now. What about you? Are you in love with me?"

* * *

Draco blinked, but more because he hadn't expected to be asked the question yet than because he hadn't expected it at all. He reached up and managed, with some stretching on his part and bending on Harry's, to get a hand behind Harry's head and scratch through his hair. Harry shut his eyes and made a small, pleased sound.

"I'm on my way there," said Draco. "I don't think I'll know the emotion when I do feel it, at least not right away. Maybe I won't know it at all, and then I'll make some grand gesture and surprise myself as well as everyone else with how much I love you." He found himself oddly enchanted with the idea, trying to imagine what the grand gesture could be. If he had committed himself to Gryffindor tactics when dealing with his parents, then surely he should commit himself to Gryffindor gestures of love as well.

"I'd want you to be honest," said Harry, and made that soft pleased sound again, though Draco's fingers had stopped moving. "Tell me when you're certain. Not before."

"All right," Draco said, and reminded himself that he had known this loose, relaxed state would come upon them when they finished the potion, but that didn't mean he had to act like an utter idiot. Then he wondered if he really was acting like an utter idiot, and lost the train of thought when Harry asked him another question.

"What did you want to see in my mind?"

"Why you were so afraid of your magic," said Draco, and dropped his head back against the couch, and smiled at Harry. He just wanted to lie here and look at him, and he knew he probably would for as long as the effects of the potion lasted. And was that so wrong? Was that something he had to deny himself even when he was in his proper frame of mind again?

_Maybe not._

"I told you that," Harry said, and he had the nerve to look surprised. "I was afraid of hurting someone. I consumed part of Ginny's magic. I nearly killed her. And I did it because I felt jealousy and lust. I couldn't trust that she loved me enough to stay with me in spite of flirting with Dean."

"I knew that, but I didn't feel it, just like you didn't feel my rebellion," Draco whispered. "I thought it was a silly thing to feel. You didn't actually kill her or drain all her magic, you stopped, so what was the problem?"

"I felt the desire to do it, though," said Harry. "I don't like that."

"Desires aren't evil," Draco said. "Actions are."

Harry smiled, a sad smile, but not a distant one. He was still open to talking about this, and Draco hoped he would be for as long as the effects of the potion lasted. And it was not because he wanted Harry to be vulnerable if he was vulnerable, Draco thought. He just wanted to share this free talking and lack of defensiveness with him.

"That's something I think we'll have to disagree on, always," Harry said. "But yes, that was it. I know I've done things I shouldn't be proud of, but I still kept trying to pretend I didn't have those desires. And if I killed the desires altogether with the potion, then I could really say that I didn't have them at all."

"You'll stop taking the potion," Draco said. He said it in the way he might have said stones would fall to the earth; he felt the same certainty filling him.

Harry blinked. "Why? After all, it's changed. It doesn't eliminate my desires any more. It'll allow me to protect you by strengthening my magic, and I think that's a good thing, for as long as our conflict with our enemies lasts."

Draco shook his head. "It could change back," he said. "What if the danger passes and then you decided that you want to get rid of those desires again? You're in love with me now. Can you imagine feeling those desires towards me?"

Harry let his eyelids fall over his eyes, and shivered once, a full-body shiver of absolute terror that Draco could feel very well, lying in his lap as he was.

"I don't mind if you feel those desires," Draco said, very quietly. "You were in love with Weasley, and you felt them towards her. I won't play jealousy games with you; I can promise that. But I want you to be able to feel them towards me, if you think my behavior deserves it. I want to get rid of even the chance that you'll someday decide to suppress your passion again, because you're afraid of yourself. Stop taking the potion, Harry."

Harry made a noise of dissent, but it was weak and unformed.

"Please," Draco whispered, and arched his neck so he could kiss Harry's ear.

Harry nodded against him, then paused as if he were wondering what he had just agreed to do. But Draco immediately turned his head around so he could kiss Harry on the lips, and Harry gave a delighted little murmur and slid his arms around him.

Draco had expected to feel triumph more than anything else when he got Harry off the potion. Instead, he felt relief. A threat to Harry and his relationship with Harry was gone now, and he was willing to withstand whatever consequences might come along because of Harry's abandonment of the potion.

He was not afraid of Harry. Nothing could make him be.


	8. Hope Returning

Thank you again for all the reviews!

_Chapter Eight—Hope Returning_

Harry stood in the loo, his fingers tightening on the door of the cabinet he'd opened. There before him shimmered the glass vials of his own potion, the base for Desire, the potion he'd consumed for years to help him ward off unwelcome emotions, and then to strengthen his magic so he could protect Draco.

He could feel the temptation to reach out, pick up one of the glass vials, and open it. It was not only the habit of years that made him want to do so. Rationally, he knew the potion had no addictive properties, but he also knew that he had relied on it to do things he couldn't. To go without it, now—to go practically naked, if only in his stomach and head—frightened him.

Draco rapped sharply on the door of the loo, and Harry jumped. Then he raised his wand and murmured the words of the Vanishing spell quickly before he could change his mind.

Every single vial of his potion disappeared. Harry took a deep breath, which caught in his throat and turned to clogged panic.

"Harry? Are you done?" Draco's voice was light with impatience, which Harry thought he was showing in place of worry. Since his sojourn in Draco's mind, he no longer believed Draco was perfectly in control of his feelings at all times; he often masked them with others. "Only we're supposed to meet Millicent in three minutes, and it will probably take us that long to get into an area where no Muggles can see us."

Harry closed his eyes and fought the temptation to lean against the wall. He had chosen to do this. He had maintained his resolve even when the mind-reading potion wore off and things no longer seemed so easy.

"I'm coming," he murmured, and opened the door of the loo. Draco stepped past him at once, bracing one hand on Harry's shoulder as he stared at the cabinet that had contained the potions. Harry watched his hand twitch towards his wand, and he suspected Draco probably wanted to cast a spell that would reassure him the vials were really gone, not simply turned invisible or otherwise hidden from sight.

Then he took a deep breath and faced Harry, wrapping his arms around his neck and staring into his eyes. "I'm proud of you," he said.

Harry kissed him, desperately needing the reassurance of lips and tongue beneath his. Draco let him into his mouth eagerly, and then moaned, which made Harry smile. He moved to tangle his hand into Draco's hair and shift his hips forwards, but Draco drew his head back and murmured, "Two minutes, maybe? And as a courting gesture, it's a fine one, but it could use some company."

Harry smiled as he followed Draco out into the main room of the flat. He understood Draco's nervousness with romantic and sexual gestures much better now that he had actually _seen _what Daphne had done to him. Draco would need a chance, yet, to become accustomed to Harry, and he liked being wooed and courted. Merlin, he liked being _supported _in any way at all, after so many years of having to make and justify his own decisions.

Harry could do that. He could happily do that.

And not only because focusing on that idea carried him past the moments when he might have regretted his sudden course of action and tried to recover the potions.

* * *

"I thought you said this was a warehouse?" Draco asked, and didn't bother keeping the snide tone out of his voice.

Millicent turned and smiled at him. "I may have misled you a little," she said, and waved her wand in a sweep that brightened the magical lights all over the building. "I do that sometimes."

Draco tilted his head back and fought to keep from gaping. He wasn't going to be that undignified. The building they stood in was enormous, both tall and large, more like a cavern than a house. And yet it hadn't been used just for storing objects; Draco could see balconies projecting from the walls, ornamented doors, places on the walls where paintings had once hung.

In the center of the room sat one massive staircase that spiraled up to what looked like the roof but must only be the ceiling, and then split into two corridors. Draco supposed those descended through the walls to come out into the balconies he saw, and probably more rooms.

"What was this, if not a warehouse?" Harry said, and shifted restlessly behind Draco. Draco reached back to press his hand without looking at him. He knew Harry was worrying they had made a mistake trusting Millicent, but Draco didn't think so. She had been fond of practical jokes and misleading people, as she called it, back in school, but her machinations had lacked the outright malice that drove Daphne's.

"A place where Dragon-Keepers once gathered," Millicent said. She was pacing towards the staircase, and looked back at them, smiling as if she knew exactly why they were reluctant to come further and thought the fact hilarious. "They wanted a building that could hold their—ah—friends whilst they danced. The first floor was not meant for dragons, of course, but all this was." She gestured around at the stone floor and walls of the enormous central room.

That explained the remains of fire-deflection spells twined with the stone, Draco thought wryly. He was already evaluating which corners of the room would be best for a potions laboratory.

Or perhaps—

Could he have a laboratory that occupied the whole of this floor? And why not? No one else was here to trouble him. Harry would be happy to help; Draco had already seen that he was not afraid of grand endeavors. And there was no longer a necessity to reserve the space for dragons.

He began to wander in circles, calculating the best places for shelves, tables, cabinets, large cauldrons. He heard Harry and Millicent talking quietly behind him, but didn't pay attention to the conversation until he heard Harry's loud protest.

"No! Are you mad? Let me pay you back for the ingredients, at least."

Draco turned around, frowning. He probably _should _have insisted on handling Millicent for at least the first few passes of the conversation, instead of letting Harry talk to her. He had allowed Harry to take over during their first meeting because Millicent would expect him to talk at some point, and because he had been thinking about the mind-reading potion. But now Harry had offered her an insult, and he didn't even know it.

Millicent was standing as stiff as an obelisk, her smile gone. Then she turned her head away from Harry in the way she had the other day when sheltering under the hood from the rain.

"Malfoy," she said, voice strained but still more polite than Draco had expected given the subject matter. "Perhaps you could explain some things to him?"

Draco sighed and stepped up beside Harry, resting a hand on his shoulder. Harry's muscles bunched under his palm like a restless horse's, and then he relaxed and sighed. He glanced sideways at Draco from the corner of his eye. "I suppose you're going to tell me what I did wrong?"

"Yes," Draco said, and had to smile at the half-exasperated, half-guilty expression on Harry's face. He could remember when Harry would have placed the blame for his mistake entirely on the Slytherin he was dealing with. He turned Harry to the side, so that they were, at least on the surface, not looking at Millicent. "If someone in pure-blood society offers to back you with money like this, instead of being talked into it, you don't offer to repay them. They'll take their repayment in some other coin. Lucius's ruin, in this case."

Harry frowned and ran a hand through his hair. "But that makes no sense," he said. "I understand the concept of debts. Why shouldn't she accept the debt back in the same coin?"

"Because that's not the way it works," Draco said. "Would you trade money for money?"

"I do it all the time when I change my Galleons into Muggle pounds," Harry said stubbornly.

Draco rolled his eyes, but was thankful to see Millicent's face twitch from the corner of his eye in the way that meant she was concealing a smile. She wasn't truly offended, and Harry's ignorance hadn't put a fatal dent in the wall they were building together.

_Besides, whose fault is this for not warning Harry?_

Draco blinked a little. He had not expected to accuse himself. He wondered for a moment whether that was not a better sign of how he felt about Harry than anything else he'd done so far.

But he put the thought aside impatiently when Harry stirred in his hold. "Not among us," he said. "Money for money is a vulgar idea. Yes, eventually someone who lends you Galleons in a business matter will expect to be paid back, but it will be in wares or profits from that business matter, instead of a simple repayment."

"I don't understand," Harry muttered.

"Leave it up to innate pure-blood deviousness, if you like." Draco rubbed Harry's shoulder. He thought he had balanced his Slytherin and Gryffindor qualities well so far, using the best ones when the best moment came. Harry obviously needed more work. "We do things indirectly. What Cordelia did, purchasing the debts that I owed others and then challenging me to repay them, was actually dreadfully vulgar. Of course, I had other concerns than telling her so."

Harry nodded. He glanced sideways at Millicent, who was still avoiding their eyes, and then said, so softly Draco could barely hear him, "I'm sorry. Is working on Lucius's ruin enough for you right now? Or do you want something else?"

Draco grimaced. That was still more direct than he would have been. On the other hand, it reached Millicent, who turned around and said, "His ruin is enough. I will see him ruined by the son he raised and tried to make his heir. The copy of himself—as he thought. He will have created, quite literally, his own bane." Millicent's mouth curved like a serpent. "There is a certain poetic irony to that that I like."

"Do you have the ingredients for the Desire potion gathered?" Draco asked, so they might all move on from the awkward moment Harry had unintentionally created. Millicent cocked her head at him with another small smile that said she knew exactly what he was doing, but reached into her pocket and pulled out a shrunken trunk she enlarged to normal size with a flick of her wand.

Draco exhaled a pleased breath when he opened the trunk and saw many different compartments, all of them lined with cloth, all of them separated from each other with small but thick walls of treated wood. Yes, Millicent had studied the proper way to prepare potions ingredients. There was no chance that the ingredients, themselves wrapped in cloth bags or lengths of silk where that would not damage them, had reacted with one another. He drew out the bag that held shavings of unicorn hoof, from the smell, and opened it to spill them into his hand. He nodded, then set the bag back into its compartment. Of course he would examine them all in detail before he used any of them in the Desire potion, but it would be insulting to show more than the barest caution in front of Millicent, after she had performed such a great favor for them.

"How soon will you expect us to have the Desire potion finished?" he asked, and saw Harry's head twitch with surprise. But Millicent's smile widened. Draco looked at her calmly. _This _was one of the methods of indirect repayment he hoped to teach Harry about. Millicent was playing an important part in their being able to brew the potion again at all; she deserved a certain amount of say in how they would brew it.

"I don't want to rush you, and I don't want to strain you," said Millicent, with a significant glance down his body, as if she were searching for hidden scars. Draco ignored the look. She had a right to doubt him after the information she'd heard the other day. "But I think it important that we show Lucius and the others that we are challenging them, instead of merely playing about. Can you have the first batch ready in four days? I will spread the word in the meantime, and make sure that you have a few willing clients."

"Four days will be enough time," said Draco, and didn't look at Harry when he shifted uneasily. Harry was no doubt worried that it would not be enough time for Draco, given the wounds he was recovering from. But he didn't understand. It would have to be _made _enough time, whether it really was or not.

"Good," said Millicent. "In that case, I leave you here." She flipped something through the air, and Draco caught it with a deft hand, though he had seen Harry reaching for it at the same time. It was a set of keys, which he knew were symbolic more than anything, but which would unlock the main door of the house in much less time than it would take them to undo all the wards. And there were more, small silver and iron keys, which looked as if they were to the doors inside the house. "I will owl you when I think the potion ought to be finished. Do not disappoint me." She smiled at Harry, and then turned and departed, her robes swishing along the floor. They struck up no dust, Draco noted. Millicent had been in here and cleaned already, or fetched someone she trusted to do so.

Draco took a deep breath and looked around the enormous room once more. A twitch of his wand Transfigured one wall and alcove into the beginning of a table. Then he enlarged the shrunken cauldron he had carried with him and placed it on the table. Turning to the trunk in which Millicent had left the ingredients for the Desire potion, he retrieved two of the small pouches, and then paused. Harry had just cleared his throat.

"Yes?" Draco asked mildly, not straightening yet. He was making sure none of the pouches had wards or stinging spells on them. Millicent might have left those either to test them or simply to satisfy her appetite for pranks.

"I—are you sure you're ready for this now?" Harry murmured. "I mean, we don't have to do this immediately. It doesn't take us long to brew a cauldron full of Desire potion once we start. You can rest—"

Draco stood and turned around to face Harry. Harry had asked him to be honest about his feelings, and so Draco showed his irritation in his narrowed eyes and harsh breath. Harry blinked and fell silent, then stepped back, one hand raised as if to shield himself from a blow.

"It's very chivalrous of you to protect me, Harry," Draco said, and made sure every word echoed in the silence like a stone falling to the floor of stone they stood on. "But I don't need it forever. And there are some things I need to do whether or not I hurt. You've kept going through wounds or pain, haven't you? You focused on brewing the potion you took even though you were hurting from what you'd almost done to Weasley. I can do this."

Harry narrowed his eyes back, and stood his ground. "And is it best to do this when we're angry with each other? I don't think even the camaraderie that builds up from sharing magic can compensate for that."

Draco blinked, and his pride deflated like a pricked bag of water. He shuddered and laid his hand over his eyes. Harry was right. What was wrong with him? He knew better than to let his emotions get in the way of brewing, and honesty or not, Harry hadn't done anything worth the lecture Draco had tried to give him.

Besides, he had used information he'd found in Harry's mind against him. Draco hadn't wanted to do that, either.

Swallowing, and then almost choking against the taste of shame, he looked up and cleared his throat. "I—apologize. I know you're simply worried about me. But I brewed the mind-reading potion yesterday, and the sooner we strike back against those trying to destroy us, the happier I'll be. I want to have something solid to show them, and the Desire potion is something solid."

Harry relaxed and stepped towards him, wrapping an arm around his waist and nuzzling his face into his hair. Draco tilted his head up, surprised for a moment how physical Harry had become since yesterday.

_On the other hand, he admitted he loved me. I suppose he feels free to be physical after that._

"I don't underestimate your determination," Harry whispered. "Or your stubbornness. And I want to have something solid, too. But I would rather lose what remains of my dignity and public reputation to Diggory than see you hurt because you took on something that was too much for you. I was more worried about your mental than physical fitness, actually, and the way you'll be channeling magic during the brewing. Daphne cast spells that affected your magical core, didn't she?"

Draco shivered and moved his hand up to stroke the back of Harry's neck. Yes, if someone was in love with him—and Draco had no real doubt that Harry was—he could depend on that person to support him, protect him, worry over him.

It was a foreign sensation, but more because Draco had grown used to standing on his own feet in the last few years than because he resented such support. How _could _he resent it? Harry was offering his love without even knowing if Draco loved him back.

"Let's brew," he whispered into Harry's ear, answering the concerns about his health and safety the only way he could.

Harry took a moment to kiss his throat before he nodded.

* * *

The brewing was—not as Harry remembered it.

When they began to pass their magic back and forth, he found himself dismayed at how calm his power seemed to be, how passive. Before, it had been like tossing a raging spate of water at Draco, and that had been intensely exhilarating in its own way. Now he was handing across a skein of lead, and it seemed Draco was crossing it with his own power as slowly as he might cross two swords.

_What is wrong with me? _Harry thought, frowning furiously at his hands during one of the moments when Draco was salting the cauldron with ingredients and didn't need him. _We should be closer than ever after that mind-reading potion, not so distant from each other that—_

And then Harry sighed. Were they that distant from each other, or did he fear he would fail to contribute magic when the potion most needed it?

He had always had the support of his own potion before. It had lessened his control over his magic at first, leaving the strength to press against the surface and pop continually like a large bubble. It had been easy to pour that magic across to Draco. And then he had been aware of his magic reacting whenever it thought Draco was in danger, whether or not he had specifically commanded it to do so.

His magic had not lessened. But he would have to learn to control it consciously now, rather than leaving that control up to external factors.

Draco tossed the stream of magic back to him, and Harry gathered it up, added more, and then added the next ingredient to the cauldron. Cautiously, aware that Draco would scold him for such Gryffindor experimenting in the middle of a delicate process if he sensed it, Harry asked the power to increase and concentrated on making it do so, rather than simply waiting for it to happen.

The magic blasted through him like purifying fire in an instant, and Harry could hardly restrain a gasp as he flung it back to Draco. He felt sweat start on his forehead.

Draco faltered as he caught the stream, and Harry wondered if he would need to step in and catch it—or if perhaps the magic had traveled through a hole in Draco's magical core caused by one of Daphne's spells. But Draco seized hold in a moment, and then raised his shining eyes to Harry's face and laughed.

Harry felt a grin light his face in response. He watched the movements of Draco's hands, swift and skilled and sure, eagerly now, waiting for the moment when it would be his responsibility to take over. And then Draco turned his head and winked at him, hair blowing in some wind Harry couldn't feel, and tossed him the magic.

Harry snatched it out of midair, held the power a moment for the sheer pleasure of feeling it storm through him, and then poured it directly into the potion. Draco had completed the final step, and there was only this left—a step they had performed before, but which Harry was in charge of for the first time.

Draco took hold of his shoulders and leaned his chest against Harry's back. Harry shuddered in delight and leaned back, clasping Draco's hands with his own, never taking his gaze off the cauldron. The iron sides were vibrating, the potion shuddering and on the edge of boiling away, and Harry knew he had to be careful not to pass the physical limits of what Desire could take. He conjured the image in his mind of what the final potion should look like, blue-green and thick and almost clear in places, and drew the magic along a straight line between the reality of the present moment and that vision.

A silent white _pop_ scattered light through the air in front of him, hard enough to blind Harry for a moment. He felt Draco take a step towards the table, though he kept one hand on Harry's shoulder as though not wanting to lose contact. He had to stretch far enough that his fingers strained like the spread legs of a spider before he could see into the cauldron.

"Well?" Harry demanded. Draco's face was neutral, and Harry was annoyed he couldn't read it.

Draco turned to him and laughed, and Harry realized he had kept the neutral expression on purpose. The Desire potion was perfect, or Draco would have made some sign. Harry exhaled in relief and tackled Draco.

Draco went over with an _oof_, and they rolled together on the floor, each trying to hold and pin the other. Harry nearly lost the contest because he was laughing too hard to breathe or keep a consistent grip on Draco's hands, but in the end he trapped Draco with his arms bent almost behind his head, his legs firmly wedged between Harry's, his neck arched above the floor.

"Well," Draco said, the words puffing across Harry's ear and creating a buzzing, pleasant tingle, "now what are you going to do with me?"

Harry smiled at him and began to kiss down his face and his neck. His contentment was deeper with every little helpless breath Draco took, the way his legs flexed restlessly and then fell open. In this, at least, he was confident. He had enjoyed making love to his girlfriends even under the influence of the potion that forbade him passion.

He slipped his hand under the top of Draco's shirt and rubbed his stomach for a moment, then reached towards his pants. Draco caught his breath as if he couldn't believe Harry's boldness, then arched his hips with a needy little groan. "Please," he said. "Please, please, oh _please._"

And that was all Harry needed to reassure him that his gestures were welcome, even after Daphne.

Harry took his time, wriggling his fingers gently between Draco's thighs, finding his balls and skimming them with his thumb. He had nearly touched the bare flesh of Draco's erection when they both heard the pop of Apparition outside the door.

Draco's body went tight in an instant, and he sat up. "That will be Diggory," he said.

"What?" Harry whirled around, crouching mostly on top of Draco still, putting his body between Draco and the door. "Can you feel his magical signature?"

"Of course not," Draco said, and kissed the side of Harry's face. "I simply wondered who would be most likely to appear and ruin the moment just as I'm about to get a handjob, and it was him."

Harry laughed shakily. Then Draco caught the back of his neck and pulled his head around. The expression on his face was more serious than Harry had ever seen it without anger to qualify it.

"We _are _going to finish this later," he said quietly.

Harry smiled back, without a shake to it this time, and held out a hand to help Draco up.


	9. A Visit from the Mother

Thank you again for all the reviews!

_Chapter Nine—A Visit from the Mother_

Draco narrowed his eyes only slightly when he realized that the person waiting for them outside the manor house was not Diggory after all. His mother stood there, her back deliberately turned, so that she could look into the distance and a wind could blow her long hair and her white robes dramatically back. Unfortunately for her, Draco had studied the weather before they entered the house and knew it must be a conjured breeze affecting her, because the air had been so still.

Besides, he had lost his susceptibility to such dramatic gestures shortly after he turned seventeen and discovered exactly how little they availed against the Dark Lord.

"Mother," he said. Narcissa turned slowly to face him, pivoting as if she wanted to make them admire the grace with which she moved. She ended up with her back against the dark stretch of forest that enclosed the house, an effect Draco knew she had planned.

For a moment, Harry's hand was tight on his shoulder. Draco knew it was Narcissa's relationship to Draco affecting hm. He seemed to believe there was something special or sacred about parents, perhaps only because he had lost his at such a young age, and he didn't like the fact that Draco was forced to oppose them.

Draco reached up and squeezed his wrist firmly, willing Harry to remember, from the little sojourn the potion had given him in Draco's mind, that his parents did not have that significance to him, and he could stand against them without doing himself psychic damage. He didn't know if Harry understood the whole of the message, but the clamp of his fingers gradually relaxed.

"Why are you here?" Draco asked, since Narcissa seemed quite willing to stand in silence for minutes on end. He didn't like these games, and though Narcissa would no doubt think he was surrendering by admitting he could not make her speak, Draco knew he was sidestepping the playing of them altogether.

"You know why." Narcissa's voice was smooth and musical and quiet. It was another effect; Draco had never heard her speak like that when she was not trying to influence someone. For the briefest moment, her eyes moved to Harry, and then back to Draco's face, in a gesture meant to dismiss him from existence. Harry didn't move. Draco felt a swell of pride in him, and smiled. He thought Narcissa paused a moment before speaking further, as if the smile had disconcerted her. "You still have ties to us, Draco, bonds that you cannot snap and never forsake. The same blood runs in your veins as it does in ours." Another impressive pause.

Draco laughed. "And the same blood runs in your veins that runs in Aunt Andromeda's. I don't see you hurrying to claim kinship with her."

Narcissa's chin lifted. "My sister has done the unthinkable and committed a crime we cannot forgive—"

"Marriage. Bearing a child." Draco folded his arms and shook his head. "Strange actions to name crimes."

He could sense his mother's tense surprise; one did not interrupt another in the Slytherin games his parents had taught him. One heard them to the end and met their words with a cutting retort or freezing silence, to show that one was not afraid. But Harry leaned against his back and squeezed his shoulder again, gently this time, and that was all Draco needed.

"You have only dated someone unsuitable," said Narcissa. "You have spoken insulting words to us, but those can be redeemed. Come home, Draco. We will give you a potions laboratory to attend to your hobbies, and you may sell the finest potions from beneath a pseudonym. Sell as many as you wish. Your father and I will not interfere."

"You taught me about debts too well," Draco said calmly. "Let's say that I believed you, and that you did in fact demand nothing more of me than living in the Manor and selling potions under another name. I would still owe you a debt because you provided me with the equipment, the money, and the space. And anyone who owes a debt to a Malfoy is devoured in the end. The only safe one is a debt of vengeance. That may be repaid."

His mother became colder and more beautiful still, without moving a muscle. Draco might have frozen or flinched in return, were they standing in the Manor, and had it been two years ago. But Daphne had done worse to him than his mother ever could, and they were on his own ground. He stared back, amused this time and willing to play the game because he had said all he wanted to say.

"There was once no talk of debts between us," Narcissa said, her voice lower and assuming the delicate ripple of distress that supposedly meant she was heartbroken. "It should be that way again. You are our _child_, Draco, not our debtor."

"There was always talk of debts," Draco said. He would not allow his mother to rewrite reality. "You simply didn't call them that. You reminded me constantly of what I owed to our ancestors, to the Malfoy name, to you and Father because you sometimes indulged my fondest wishes or applauded me politely when I'd done some trick. I've ended that system. It's your fault if you don't realize it's done."

More freezing. Draco didn't care. He'd long since forced himself not to care, but now the indifference was real. He would not listen to his parents, and he would not come back to the Manor. He would keep on saying that until they believed him.

Given how stubborn Lucius and Narcissa were, however, that might well take years. Draco hoped he was prepared for them.

Then Harry stepped around him to confront his mother, and Draco caught a glimpse of his face in passing, ferocious and determined. He felt his jumping stomach settle a bit, and he laid his head on Harry's shoulder.

_Yes, with him I can endure._

* * *

Harry thought he was beginning to understand now, after seeing the truth in Draco's mind. There was no way you could heal a wound that didn't want to be healed. Snape and Sirius had never wanted to heal the wound that lay between them, and so it had festered until both of them died. And Narcissa Malfoy was not yet willing to admit that anyone but she and her husband had the least idea of how to succeed in the world or be happy.

_If being happy is even something they care about. _There had been no indication from Draco's memories that it was.

"How did you find us?" he asked Narcissa, a question he thought mattered. He would not play games because he didn't know how to play them, but he also saw no need to stand in silence when he wanted to know this answer.

Narcissa gave him a look that the younger Draco had perfected, a look that let Harry know he was nothing important at all. But Harry was not as young as he had been. He folded his arms and planted his feet and refused to move.

"A tracking charm," Narcissa said at last. Harry didn't know what icy current of her mind had changed and made her decide to answer him, but he doubted that he really needed to know. "And I never thought to see the day when I had to use a tracking charm to find my own son."

"I'm sure you didn't," Harry said. He was no good at drawling, but he could let her hear the rancor in his voice, the way he had once showed it to Uncle Vernon. "And what did you really hope to accomplish by coming here? Did you think Draco would suddenly surrender to arguments he's heard a dozen times before?"

Narcissa's voice when she answered, which didn't happen for some moments, was as soft as snowfall. "You understand nothing, Harry Potter." She turned and faced Draco again, holding her face in a way that showed she'd forgotten Harry's existence. Or at least, Harry thought it was supposed to show that. He also thought it was fairly stupid of Narcissa to ignore him when he had a wand. "If you will not listen to sanity, my son, there is still another piece of reality we can offer you. Your father is willing to fund your experiments with potions. And Charlemagne Diggory is willing to offer you a position supplying those potions to the Ministry, under your own name and with your own credit. We hesitated to speak of this, because we thought you might find the idea of such—servitude—disgusting. But it will be a satisfactory solution to the problem of accommodating your desires without destroying our reputation."

"I'd be Diggory's lackey," Draco said, and yawned in his mother's face. "I'm not interested."

Harry grinned, proud of Draco, and then leaned in and hugged him. Draco looked startled and mildly uncomfortable for a moment, but then he stepped back against Harry and raised an eyebrow at his mother. Harry darted a look at her and found her regarding them as she might a pig with two heads.

Harry felt the first stirrings of pity for Narcissa Malfoy then. She could not grasp what she was looking at. To her, the emotions he and Draco expressed were not merely unfit to display in public, they simply didn't exist.

"And there is a third reality waiting, if you reject both of these," Narcissa said at last. Her voice was low, as if she wanted to be sure they would listen to her. "The reality that comes when you anger your parents, when you anger the man who will be Minister."

"You're threatening him," Harry said. "Your own son. Did you foresee this day, at least?"

"Oh, she's done plenty of threatening before," Draco said, and then laughed. Harry knew it was at Narcissa's expression, the nostrils pinching shut as they had done when he first saw her at the Quidditch World Cup. "You must excuse my mother, Harry," Draco muttered in an exaggerated whisper. "She has an allergy to honest language."

"Draco," Narcissa said, and her voice was sweet and sad. "So many chances we have offered you. Are our hands to be slapped aside each time? Are our tolerances to stretch again and again, and grow thinner and finer with stretching, to encompass the intolerable?"

"I don't know," Draco said. "Are they? That's your choice to make, Mother. The greatest lie you and Father told me is that you do nothing but react to the world around you, barely letting the currents of great thoughts and events stir you from your places. But I know you strive to shape those currents as much as you can. You're as invested in the world as I am. The only difference is that I can be open about it, and you can't, because of reasons you can't articulate." He snorted. "I'll tell you again: you can't give me what I need, so I found someone who can." He lifted his arm and curled his hand possessively about the back of Harry's neck. "Maybe you'll listen this time."

Narcissa turned her head back and forth for some time, regarding them as though she wanted to memorize every detail of their expressions, wands, robes, and magic. Then she Disapparated. Harry thought the air smelled cleaner with her gone.

He sighed and nuzzled Draco's neck. "Do you think she was telling the truth about the tracking charm?"

"Yes," Draco said without hesitation. "I found a note from her in my robes the night we visited the Manor. When I touched it, the charm could have been transferred from the parchment to my skin. She's done things like that before."

"What a bitch," Harry said thoughtlessly, and then blushed.

But Draco tilted his head back and laughed, and if the laugh was slightly hysterical, Harry didn't think he could blame him. He ran his hand up and down Draco's side, and murmured into his neck, "Do you want to go back into the house and brew more Desire?"

Draco looked up at him and raised an eyebrow. "No. I want to secure the house and then go home." His voice was low and intense. "I told you we were going to finish what my mother interrupted."

Harry froze, startled. He had known Draco would eventually want to resume their interrupted—activities—but not this soon. After all, hadn't he yielded to Harry's hands before because of the companionship and joy built up between them during the brewing? If they took it more slowly, wouldn't his memories of his torture at Daphne's hands overwhelm him?

"Trust me," Draco said, and pushed closer to him, so that Harry suddenly had to deal both with a warm chest pressing against his and a pair of lips speaking a few inches from his own, sending warm, soft breath raking into his mouth. "I'm ready. I've been waiting for this longer than I've been suffering from Daphne's torture, don't forget."

Harry swallowed. With the motion, he also swallowed his worry about Draco and his fear that he would do something to hurt him without even realizing it.

He did trust Draco. He trusted him to know what was too much for him and what he was ready for, and to tell Harry to stop if fear suddenly struck him. If he didn't have that trust, then they might as well never have taken the Legilimency potion.

He kissed Draco, and Draco opened his mouth at once for a proper snog, murmuring contentedly in the back of his throat. It was long moments before Harry could bring himself to pull away, and in that time his fingers had dug into Draco's hair and he'd tipped his head back so he could have greater access to his lips. It seemed his body was confident enough, whatever the doubts of his mind.

"All right," Harry whispered. "Just let me make sure to fetch the cauldron out and cast the proper locking spells. We can't chance our enemies destroying _this _stock of Desire potion, now that they know where it is."

Even the mention of Diggory and his parents didn't drive away the haze in Draco's eyes. He just licked his lips and stepped around Harry so he was leaning his chest against Harry's back. "Hurry," he whispered into his ear.

Harry shuddered and drew his wand.

* * *

Draco had had better lovers than Harry, more skilled ones. He knew that the first time he kissed him. But he had never had anyone who took as much tender care with him, who brushed his hair away from his face as if it were a revelation, or paused after the loosening of each button to stare as if Draco's skin were uniquely beautiful.

The best part was that Harry wasn't making a conscious effort to do so. He simply did it because that was the way he went about lovemaking, and his fingers shook with a flattering eagerness as he pulled Draco's pants down. Draco couldn't even feel embarrassed about the copious wetness that had already stained the pants.

He was lying on the couch in the main room of the flat, with Harry kneeling beside him. Draco had suggested taking it to the bed, but Harry had shaken his head and pushed him back on the couch before turning directly to the undressing. Now he stared at Draco with desire in his eyes that made Draco arch his hips up, trying to aim for the hand that rested on his flank.

Harry must have mistaken the gesture, or perhaps he had already decided on the way home from the manor house that a handjob was not enough to satisfy him. He bent his head and breathed softly over Draco's erection.

"Oh, please," Draco said. He was startled for a moment, because he _was _a practiced and experienced lover, and speaking words in that broken tone hadn't been part of his plans.

Harry smiled without looking up into his face, closed his eyes, and gently took Draco into his mouth.

Draco shuddered, less from the sensations at first than the thought of where his cock was going. He arched his hips again, and Harry moved slightly back but didn't let him go, or choke. Then he began to swirl his tongue rapidly around and around the shaft, and Draco gripped the sides of the couch so he wouldn't fall off, sobbing sharply.

Harry kept his tongue moving, long past the point where Draco thought his jaw would probably begin to tire. Then he edged forwards and sucked perhaps three-quarters of the erection into his mouth. Draco squirmed and barely kept his feet from hitting the back of Harry's neck; he had never felt this _stripped _before, as though Harry were taking in far more of him than the relatively small part of Draco's body his tongue and lips cradled, and as if the swallowing had somehow removed Draco's outer layer of skin.

Harry began to swallow around Draco. Draco moaned aloud, and now he couldn't help the thrusts, though he had tried to hold them back before, because he knew Harry hadn't actually been with a man. But the swallowing went on and on, and Harry began to whisper encouragement, or so Draco imagined from the humming noise that emerged from his mouth. Draco's heart banged once, and then his body tightened, pulling the orgasm from him and emptying him in sudden, shattering pleasure down Harry's throat.

The draining effect lasted far past the initial moments, so that Draco opened his eyes some time later and found himself already clean, his spent cock tucked neatly back along his leg. Harry hovered above his face, staring at him anxiously.

"Are you all right?" he whispered.

Draco burst out laughing, because Harry didn't have the sense to realize that a reaction like that to orgasm was a _good _thing, and reached up to initiate another kiss. His mouth was only slightly bitter. Draco made a mental note to tell Harry that he didn't need to use such astringent spells on his tongue; Draco didn't mind the taste of himself.

"More than all right," he said. "Now, lie down on the couch."

Harry closed his eyes for a moment, and Draco wondered if he had said something that revolted him. But when Harry looked at him again, Draco realized he was simply trying to control his lust. As it was, his eyelids had dropped as if he found them too heavy to lift again, and he was scrambling at his clothes with ineffective, because shaking, fingers.

"Let me help you," Draco said quietly, and pushed him back to lie flat.

Harry allowed him to help with the trousers and pants, but he was insistent on dragging his shirt off himself. Draco bit his tongue on the temptation to tell him that would only make it take longer, and contented himself with gazing at a naked Harry instead.

Harry was more awkward than Draco had expected, with knees that seemed to have some teenage boniness to them still, and restless arms that flailed in every direction, not to mention that hair that had taken NEWT levels in chaos. But Draco found himself swallowing anyway, especially when he realized Harry was looking directly at him again, and his expression was only a bit nervous.

The sight of him was offered up, openly, freely, to Draco, even if it did have rough edges, even if it wasn't perfect.

He bowed his head, still holding Harry's gaze, and kissed the middle of his chest. Then he kissed softly down towards Harry's groin, pausing here and there to trail his tongue whenever he found a hair. Harry made a little gasping sound each time, and his erection was soon twitching, bumping Draco's chin gently. Draco closed his eyes as the musky scent filled his mouth, and felt a stirring of interest between his own legs. It was too soon for him to recover, however.

Besides, he wanted to concentrate on Harry for right now.

Finally Harry's legs were fully open, one pressed against the back of the couch, then other dangling down so that the bottom of his foot brushed the floor. Draco leaned his cheek on one of those bony knees and gazed up at Harry, trailing his fingers back and forth over his inner thighs, everywhere but the place Harry most needed them.

Harry stared back in determination, but then Draco's fingers crept under his body, lingered near his entrance, and brushed forwards to touch his balls, and Harry whined. "Please," he whispered. "No more teasing."

"You haven't seen me tease yet," Draco said, grinning, but he let his breath travel over Harry's erection, which by now had flushed with enough blood to look painful.

Of course, Draco still had to go slowly, and properly introduce each part of his mouth to Harry's erection. He breathed across it, licked the head a few times, lipped at it, and let it rest in his mouth against his palate, his lips carefully covering his teeth, his head tilting back and forth so Harry could become acquainted with his cheeks. Glancing up, he wasn't sure Harry fully appreciated what he experienced. He had one arm thrown across his eyes and one hand stuffed into his mouth, muffling his cries against the heel of his palm.

"No, you don't," Draco whispered, pulling away. "Let me hear you. Let me _see _you."

For one long, tense, trembling moment, Harry kept his arms exactly where they were. Then he dropped them, and Draco stared into wide, uncertain green eyes and a quivering mouth hanging onto silence by a thread.

Draco took Harry fully into his mouth, with a sudden swoop of his head he had learned from his first lover, an experienced man delighted to have a virgin to initiate.

Harry cried out, then shut his mouth, then seemed to remember Draco's dictate and cried out again. He was thrashing back and forth above the waist, but below it his legs were held stiff and unmoving; he was obviously afraid of kicking Draco. Draco smiled and let his tongue sneak gently down Harry's cock towards the base.

Harry said, "I don't—oh, no—what—_Draco_," and that satisfied Draco even more. He rolled his head again, then began bobbing it up and down, and watched, smug, as Harry tensed further and further, his head arching back, his body freezing. His arms were crossed on his chest at first, but they fell open and lay limply on his lap, his last defense crumbling as he gave himself up to pleasure.

Draco puffed his cheeks out with air and sucked hard, once, and then Harry was coming, with a sob that seemed half-apology and half-ecstasy.

"Damn, damn," he said, and there were tears on his cheeks, and his voice was hoarse with more than the blowjob he had given. He reached down and dragged Draco into his arms even before Draco had swallowed and then into a kiss which was actively painful, given the pressure of his hands on Draco's neck and jaw.

Draco laughed and felt some of Harry's come spill down his face. Harry laughed at the same time, and then spluttered from what he'd half-swallowed.

_This is what I wanted, _Draco thought, as Harry closed his arms again, but this time with him inside the embrace. _No control, no holding back, because that's the same as falsehood for him. And what we have is the real thing._


	10. Unexpected Attacks

Thank you again for all the reviews!

_Chapter Ten—Unexpected Attacks_

A steady, thunderous sound had invaded Harry's dreams and was ringing against the sides of his head. He found himself struggling against it, trying to wake up. He'd been dreaming about the moment when he plunged into the pool in the middle of the Forest of Dean to retrieve the Sword of Gryffindor. Maybe the pounding was just his heart in his ears when the locket tried to choke him.

But he opened his eyes, and the thundering sound was still there. Knocking, he realized finally. He sat up and reached for his glasses with his only free hand; his other arm was caught under Draco. They'd sprawled in the middle of the bed together, naked and laughing at each other in the moments before they'd fallen asleep.

Draco raised his head and yawned so hard that Harry could hear muscles popping in his face. His eyes were still shut, as if sealed with sleep. "Who's that?" he muttered.

"I don't know," Harry said. "I'll find out." He slipped his glasses on, awkwardly, and then bent over and kissed Draco on the forehead. He could hear the knocking increase, and fainter sounds that might have been complaints from his neighbors. "You need to move so I can get my arm back and retrieve my wand."

Draco grunted and rolled over. Harry snatched up his wand and Transfigured the pillow he'd been sleeping on into a shapeless robe. He could always change it back later. Or he could use Draco for a pillow, he thought, smiling as he tied the robe together in the front with some of the looser strips of cloth dangling from it.

"Harry?"

In the doorway of the bedroom, Harry paused and looked back. Draco had raised himself on an elbow and was staring at him with eyes that looked enormous in the moonlight through the windows and the _Lumos _charm Harry had started without thought on the end of his wand.

"Be careful," Draco said.

"Always, now that I have you," said Harry, and had the pleasure of seeing a wan smile cross Draco's face before he turned and left the bedroom.

He paused when he came into the main room of the flat and tilted his head. He could tell that the people pounding on his door were wizards from the sense of magic that tingled about them and brushed the edges of his wards. He knew they weren't familiar, however, and he thought he knew Hermione, Millicent, and even Diggory well enough by now to tell if one of them had been outside.

_Hermione wouldn't have bothered with the knocking in any case, since she can come through the wards, _Harry reminded himself, and said calmly, "Who's there?"

The knocking stopped at once, but Harry heard rustling noises that sounded like the beginning of a furious argument. He leaned against the wall and waited, several defensive spells surging to his lips. His magic rippled up and down in him like a banner tossed by the wind, but Harry was reluctant to rely on the wandless aspects of it now, when he was off the potion.

Finally, a voice said through the door, "Harry Potter?"

"I might be willing to confirm that," Harry said, aiming his wand at the door, "if you tell me who you are."

"I certainly have no objection to doing so," said the pompous voice. "My name is Auror Dominic Willowberry. The Department of Magical Law Enforcement is here to arrest you under the Dictate of Limited Magical Strength."

"I've never heard of such a law," said Harry. "Why are you arresting me? What's the charge?"

For the first time, Willowberry sounded uncomfortable. "Do you really want to discuss this in the open in front of all your Muggle neighbors?"

"You've already mentioned the Department of Magical Law Enforcement," said Harry, leaning his shoulder on the wall again. He could hear thrashing noises in the bedroom now, and wondered if he should be grateful or not that their conversation would probably wake Draco up. "I'm sure they think we're all mad."

Willowberry gave a sigh that seemed to last for hours. "All right," he said at last. "The Dictate of Limited Magical Strength is a law created for the defense of ordinary wizards against magical creatures. It's meant to keep the powerful from trampling on the less powerful. It's one of the reasons that most magical creatures cannot carry wands, for instance."

Harry bit back several of the more sarcastic comments he would have liked to make. "That's nice," he said. "But I'm not a magical creature."

Now Willowberry sounded grave. "I'm afraid, Mr. Potter, that you could now be classified that way, thanks to evidence released to the Ministry of Magic that you have the ability to make ordinary wizards into Squibs. Beings who devour magic must register with the Ministry and not carry wands. Those who refuse to do so are punished with the minimum of three years in Azkaban." Willowberry sounded sadder than ever. Harry thought he probably wasn't gleeful to see Harry Potter specifically punished; he was just one of those odd blokes who became Aurors because they liked to see laws endure unbroken.

Harry took a deep breath and rubbed the inside of his wrist. Narcissa Malfoy's threat of a strike against Harry and Draco made sense now.

A soft sound came from behind him. Harry whirled around, although he knew rationally that no one could have got inside his wards without his having more notice. Draco, dressed in a much better version of the robe he was wearing, narrowed his eyes at him and then flicked his glance at the door.

"How ridiculous," he said quietly. "You can't go with them."

"And you don't know what they do to people who resist arrest," said Harry.

"Mr. Potter?" Willowberry had recovered from whatever sadness he'd shown earlier and now sounded extra-pompous. "We're waiting, and we are not willing to wait much longer, in case your magic-eating abilities prove a danger to us as well."

Draco was shaking his head, his eyes still wide, but his lips worked into a thin line. "They'll hurt you, Harry," he said. He turned to the side, and Harry saw he was holding his wand. "And I won't allow that to happen any more than you'll let them hurt me."

Harry sighed. His heart was pounding furiously, the way he had imagined it was when he woke from the dream. "Draco, they're far less likely to hurt me outright than someone like Daphne or Cordelia Nott," he said. "Please. Let me face this. You can be more useful if you don't get yourself arrested along with me. Contact Hermione and tell her that something more important than identifying all of Daphne's ex-lovers has happened."

For a long moment, Harry thought Draco would insist on fighting the Aurors. His whole body tensed. But he only turned away and punched a wall, and then turned forwards and seized the back of Harry's neck, dragging him into a kiss. Harry responded eagerly, his tongue twining around Draco's before he pulled them forcefully apart and turned towards the door.

"If I don't hear something from you, or see you myself, in two days," Draco said from behind him, "then I'm going to storm the Ministry."

Harry paused and looked back at him, his lips twitching up into a smile despite himself. "Don't be silly," he said. "You'll think of some much more subtle and Slytherin way than that to destroy them."

He had the satisfaction of seeing Draco smile back before he opened the door and began removing the wards, though he left up the stronger defensive ones to sting if it turned out that the people at the door weren't Aurors after all.

But they were clad in the regulation dark robes of Aurors and held their wands in that special stance Harry had seen them use before, not quite aimed at the suspect but quick enough to rise if need be. The leader, a tall man with a thin face, nodded and said in Willowberry's voice, "Thank you for agreeing to come along quietly, Mr. Potter. We will, of course, take your wand."

Harry handed his wand to Willowberry, suffering a brief spasm of regret that he'd stopped taking the potion after all. He didn't know if he could defend himself sufficiently if something happened to him, even if he thought about danger to Draco.

_Hermione will come for you. And Draco. Trust to them._

Harry relaxed. Trusting his friends was at least something that he was used to. He turned and walked away from his flat in the company of the Aurors, his head high and his back muscles relaxed. He wanted to present as cheerful a picture to Draco as he could for as long as he could.

* * *

Draco didn't hesitate when Harry was gone. First he shut the door and leaned against it, allowing himself exactly ten seconds in which to have an internal temper tantrum about how unfair things were.

Then he thought of a plan, the sort of thing he would naturally do in this situation—

And then he discarded the plan. He didn't think he could, in good conscience, go back to the Slytherin games he had abandoned.

_Even if they would free Harry from the Ministry? Even if you think you'll play them better than the Gryffindor ones?_

But Draco shook his head firmly. _No_. Besides, he doubted contacting his parents and pretending to surrender at this point if they would drop the charges against Harry would have the results he wanted. Narcissa's price would probably be a public renunciation of Harry, and Lucius's would be Draco's moving back into the Manor, or at least allowing Lucius to put spells on him that would prevent him from doing certain things, such as associating with Harry. And they would demand both before they dropped the charges.

_If they did. _Given their alliance with Diggory, they might simply pass along the responsibility of keeping Harry imprisoned to him, and then claim they'd kept the letter of their bargain with Draco.

Harry was not yet in such danger that Draco had to resort to such desperate tactics. He opened his eyes, his mind calming and his heart stopping its frantic beat. He went to find the ink and parchment for two letters.

He would owl Granger, yes, the way Harry had suggested. She worked in the Ministry and would know the procedures there; she might even have contacts who could ameliorate what had happened to Harry.

But he would also owl Millicent. Millicent would be most unhappy to find out that Lucius Malfoy was trying to deprive her of revenge.

Draco smiled grimly. He would instruct Millicent to come to Harry's flat before they went to the Ministry, mostly because he wanted to be along when she charged the people who thought they could keep one of her allies captive.

_It will surely make a wonderful noise._

* * *

"And how long have you been able to devour magic, Mr. Potter?"

Harry sat upright on the chair in front of the Minister's desk and smiled as naturally as he could. It was difficult with one of his old friends avoiding his gaze and speaking as if Harry was a stranger to him.

"I have no idea," Harry said. "The ability didn't exactly develop overnight, or walk up and announce itself."

Kingsley glanced up for a moment, then averted his gaze. His hand tightened on his quill. Harry had no doubt that he wasn't happy to be here and interrogating Harry like this, unlike Willowberry, who maintained a rigid posture against the far wall and followed every question avidly.

"When do you _think _you developed it?" Kingsley said, his voice as sharp as a diamond scratching on glass.

"I really have no idea." Harry thought the best thing he could be was candid, since the Ministry already knew most of the details he'd have liked to keep hidden. The point of this wasn't to protect his pride; the point was to convince the Minister that he wasn't a danger to the wizarding world and to get back to Draco. "Six years ago, I used the ability on a close friend, but I managed to restrain that magic in time. She didn't tell me until recently that she thought she had lost part of her power at the time."

"That friend's name?" Now Kingsley's voice was a diamond on ice.

Harry closed his eyes. "Ginevra Weasley."

The scratching of the quill paused for a moment, but then Kingsley said only, "Of course it would be her," and returned to his writing. Harry sat and waited for the next question. There was freezing sweat on the back of his neck. He wished he could reach up and scratch it, but such a gesture would either be an admission of weakness in front of people who had just become his enemies or taken as a sign that he was reaching for a weapon. Willowberry was already nervous enough, and Harry didn't think he wanted to know what Kingsley was feeling in any more detail than he had to.

"What reasons did you have for making Daphne Greengrass into a Squib?" Kingsley asked at last.

Harry was glad to get into this portion of the interview, if only because he thought it likely the Malfoys had left out the reason entirely when they sent the memories to the Ministry. He opened his eyes and leaned forwards. "She was torturing Draco Malfoy," he said quietly, "my business partner and now my lover." The skin between Kingsley's eyebrows pinched tighter, but this time he didn't speak. "There was very little I could do to stop her. She was a skilled Legilimens and would have read any complicated plan out of my mind before I could put it into action. So I went into the situation concentrating on danger to Draco. That's when this ability rises up in me, when I have extremely strong emotions towards someone I want to protect." And that part _was _true. Harry would mention those emotions if he needed to. "She had tortured Draco whilst she waited for me. She knew I was a powerful wizard, but so was she, so she wasn't afraid. I tried to convince her to give Draco up and stop hurting him, but I knew she wouldn't, and so—" Harry looked directly at Kingsley. "I suspect you've seen the memories in a Pensieve, haven't you, sir?"

Kingsley frowned more deeply. "You speak as if you know who brought the charges already, Mr. Potter." Behind Harry, Willowberry took a step forwards.

"Mr. and Mrs. Malfoy did," Harry said. "I already knew that Greengrass had a spell in her house that recorded certain memories and sent them to other people. She selected the Malfoys as appropriate recipients of the moments when she became a Squib. And, of course, she sent along no memories of Draco's torture." He felt his lips twist, and fought to keep from sneering. No one would understand if he sneered at the Minister instead of the Malfoys, as he so longed to do.

"Then why would they bring charges against you?" Kingsley asked, quick as a snake unfolding. "If she was torturing their son, they ought to feel grateful you freed him."

"Ah," said Harry, tasting the full weight of bitterness on the back of his tongue, "but she didn't send the memories of the torture to them. So they can pretend that part didn't happen, and they can ignore everything I say about it as lies. They want me away from him because they don't approve of Draco near someone they think might swallow his magic—even though I would never hurt Draco. And they don't want Draco to be Harry Potter's lover." He leaned in closer still. "Before they sent the memories to you, sir, they tried to display them to many of their pure-blood friends at a party to which Draco and I were invited. Charlemagne Diggory appeared as well. I destroyed the spells they'd prepared to show the memories before they could appear. If you think I'm lying, sir, I can bring in witnesses who will say the same thing, or I'm willing to give you my own memories in a Pensieve or undergo Veritaserum. The Malfoys' intentions are not pure and not motivated only by concern for their son. This is a political move to try and destroy me. The fact that they're allied with Charlemagne Diggory, who's already publicly expressed concern over the Desire potion Draco and I are brewing, also argues that."

He wondered for a moment why the Malfoys had done this at all. Did they think he wouldn't tell the truth about Draco's torture? That once he was in the Ministry, all evidence of what was really happening could be hidden beneath paperwork? Maybe they hadn't known that the Minister would insist on questioning Harry himself, and that he was unlikely to lose track of this case. Or were they depending on a public reaction of such depth and intensity to the announcement that Harry could eat magic that any justice in the trial would be bowled over?

_I'd reckon they didn't think I'd tell the truth. Slytherins rarely seem to think anyone will choose that option._

"The reasons behind the charges don't really matter," said Willowberry, his tone so nasal it sounded like a bray. "You're still a dangerous magical creature who should have come and registered with the Ministry the moment you realized you could swallow magic."

"I've tried to make it clear that I didn't know for a long time," Harry said. "And then I assumed if I did announce it, the panic would prevent any fair treatment." He kept his eyes locked on Kingsley. "What do you think, sir? What will happen now?"

Kingsley stared at his quill. Harry watched him and thought he could sense some of his thoughts. There were those who would say that Kingsley's taking any actions against Diggory came only from his fear that he wouldn't get reelected, that his moves in themselves were purely political and therefore devoid of justice. Others would say he only sought to protect Harry Potter because of the friendship between them. And others would be outraged if he _didn't _protect Harry.

On the other hand, letting a friend go to Azkaban and letting Diggory and the Malfoys get away with something like this were things Kingsley wouldn't want to happen either.

Kingsley lifted his eyes at last. "Willowberry," he said. "Take Mr. Potter to a holding cell. And ask your Aurors not to talk about this arrest until we have more complete data."

Harry could _feel _Willowberry's spine stiffening. "You can't hide news of this magnitude, sir," he said. "It's already out. And forgive me, but I do think the people have a right to know a creature as dangerous as this was walking among them."

_Yes, Willowberry can indeed be very annoying without being against me specifically, _Harry thought, and resisted the urge to rub his forehead.

"Then you will instruct the Aurors not to allow anyone access to Mr. Potter without written permission from me," Kingsley said, his voice so calm Harry thought this might have been his plan all along. "This is the sort of case that could become ugly very quickly, and I will not have anyone in our custody abused."

"Excuse me, sir," Willowberry said, "but other prisoners aren't granted such special treatment. If someone wants to see Mr. Potter—"

"Other prisoners are not in such danger." Kingsley turned to stare at Willowberry, and Harry would not have wanted to be the Auror at that moment. "Or do you think that all prisoners who are the possible targets of vengeance should also be left open to murder or curses before they go to trial?"

Harry hid his smile by bowing his head in mock humility. Willowberry sighed, but didn't voice another objection. "It shall be as you said, sir," he muttered mournfully.

"Very good." Kingsley turned back to Harry, who lifted his head when he felt the Minister's eyes on him. Kingsley's mouth was tucked down in a frown, but Harry flattered himself there was contemplation in that expression, not just anger or disappointment in him. Hopefully he realized that the situation was not entirely Harry's fault. If Harry had turned himself in—assuming he'd known about this law at all, or agreed it was his responsibility to do so—he would have been doing Diggory's work for him. "Go with Willowberry, Mr. Potter, and I do hope that the trial itself involves less trouble."

"So do I, sir," Harry said honestly, and stood up to walk beside Willowberry, so that the Auror wouldn't have an excuse to drag him along by one arm.

* * *

Granger arrived at Harry's flat first, but not much before Millicent. Draco had barely had time to tell the Muggleborn Harry was in trouble before someone else knocked. He aimed his wand at the door and said conversationally, "What was the first reason that you decided to prank Daphne Greengrass instead of Pansy Parkinson?"

"Daphne was beautiful and knew it," came the prompt response. "And she told me that I was a child of trolls and shouldn't think I was fooling anyone by dressing up in human robes."

Draco chuckled grimly and relaxed the wards. Millicent stepped into the flat and shut the door behind her, scanning the corridor slowly, before turning around.

Draco glanced back and forth between Granger and Millicent, then stepped prudently out of the space between them, in case their locked stares actually set the air on fire.

Granger obviously recognized Millicent. She was bristling like a cat confronted with a stranger nonetheless, her fingers twitching on her wand as though she'd been hit by a bolt of lightning. She didn't spit, but only because she had more dignity than that, Draco thought.

Millicent raised an eyebrow and studied Granger with more interest. Nevertheless, she did move her left hand in a particular gesture Draco recognized from their schooldays. She would have something beyond her wand up her sleeve, and she was moving it into position for throwing.

"You didn't tell me _this _was your extra help," Granger said at last, her voice deeper than usual, her gaze never wavering from Millicent.

"A nice way to refer to someone with the money and some of the contacts to help get Potter out of Azkaban," said Millicent. Her smile widened across her face, and her left hand stopped its soft rolls, though Draco didn't know why she'd decided Granger wasn't threatening. She probably would have looked warier if she'd seen Granger torturing Theodore Nott.

"I have my own contacts in the Ministry," Granger said stiffly. "And a good knowledge of magical law. I think I can rescue Harry by myself."

"Oh, come, Granger," said Millicent, and she didn't sneer on the name, to her credit. Draco thought he probably would have, in her position. "I thought Gryffindors were all about teamwork and cooperation."

"School was a long time ago," Granger said.

"Indeed." Millicent stood straighter now, and her voice had become clipped. "So I'd appreciate it if you stop treating me as though I were going to insult you any moment. I've poured money and time into the Desire potion already. I won't give that up easily. I'll help rescue Potter, and yes, it _will _be easier with me along. Otherwise, I'll just have to act independently, and we'd get in each other's way. Stop thinking you need to be the only intelligent witch present."

A dull flush crept along Granger's cheeks, making Draco wonder if Millicent's words were on-target. She cleared her throat and turned to look at Draco. "I know the law they arrested Harry under," she said. "It was clever of your parents to use it." Draco smiled wryly. She hadn't even thought it might be someone other than his parents who had arranged Harry's arrest. Of course, Harry would have owled her about Lucius and Narcissa's possessing the memories of the moments when Harry devoured Daphne's magic. "But it's not perfect. Getting a conviction under it for a human is nearly impossible. After all, the usual definition of 'being' includes those who are _not _human. And even if they insist on testing Harry, they're not going to discover that he's part-Dementor or anything of the sort. If he had Veela blood, he might be in trouble."

Draco nodded, narrowing his eyes. "I couldn't believe my parents wouldn't have known that. They must have hoped for a delaying tactic rather than permanently taking Harry out of the game."

"Yes," Millicent said abruptly. "And I think Lucius wanted to show you what would happen to someone who opposed him, Draco." She had an expression on her face that might have been a smile, except smiles usually curved the lips instead of twisting them. "Well. I can think of ways to make him sorry he's allied with Diggory. Should we approach the Ministry?"

Draco glanced at Granger. She was staring at Millicent again, but this time the stare seemed to have an evaluative edge to it, as if she found herself reluctantly forced to acknowledge her rival might have a point.

Then she caught Draco's eyes, and jerked her head down in a sharp nod.

"Let's," Draco said.


	11. Manipulations

Thank you again for all the reviews!

_Chapter Eleven—Manipulations_

Granger seemed to know where she was going; Draco would give her that. She led them into the Atrium of the Ministry, straight to the lifts, and then punched the button for the fourth floor with a determined set to her jaw.

Draco frowned over her shoulder. "The Department for the Regulation and Control of Magical Creatures?" he muttered. "Why are we going there? Visiting the Aurors would be more useful."

"I have contacts there." Granger had her arms folded, her elbows projecting in a way that managed to look as threatening as a drawn wand. "Someone who I think will be very _interested _in what we have to say to him." Her elbow twitched, and Draco moved out of the way to avoid getting jabbed in the ribs.

"Who?" Millicent asked, in the bright tone of someone who simply wanted knowledge.

Granger ignored her, instead watching the lift buttons. Draco wondered if she expected someone to suddenly call the lift to a stop and demand to know where they were going. Of course, Harry had once mentioned something about sneaking into the Ministry during the war. Perhaps Granger was having a flashback.

The lift stopped with an abrupt jerk that made Draco frown—if he owned this building, he would have specified better equipment—and Granger stepped out into the middle of a corridor that curved sharply to the left but ran straight to the right. She took the left turn, her back so straight it must have hurt. Draco hurried after, and heard Millicent walking softly behind.

"It would help if you would tell us who this contact was," he muttered into Granger's hair, "or at least what you think he can do to help Harry."

"You'll learn his name in just a moment." Granger stepped over a large spot on the floor that looked uncomfortably like a bloody pawprint. "And what he can do to help Harry is less important than the _reason _that he'll have to do just what we tell him."

Draco approved of the harshness in her voice, too. He pinched his nose against a sudden smell of chickens coming from a side corridor and watched as Granger pushed open a door that was all over dust to reveal a small office crammed with cabinets and shelves. Most of the shelves were empty. A man seated behind the single desk looked up at them with small, dull eyes, barely blinking when he saw Draco, though Draco fancied he must have recognized the Malfoy hair and face.

"Yes?" he asked, his voice without inflection. Perhaps he'd been handsome once, with his blue eyes and dark hair, but now his features were a match for his voice: unanimated, without spark. "This is the Centaur Liaison Office. Are you sure you're in the right place?"

Draco concealed an incredulous snort. No centaurs ever petitioned the Ministry for help, making the Centaur Office a joke. It was traditionally where wizards went right before they were sacked. Did Granger really think that someone who worked here could help them?

Granger smiled with all her teeth and leaned in towards the man. "You're Hunter Littlesmith," she said. "That means we are."

Draco caught his breath. The man was one he'd told Granger about himself, as someone who worked in a sub-Department of the Ministry.

And who was one of Daphne's former lovers.

Draco began to smile.

* * *

Harry found the holding cell boring. There was only a cot, a very small loo, and an enchanted window steadily turned to a picture of a forest in a rainstorm. He had nothing to read, no one to speak to, and no form of entertainment in his head. Ron had once claimed he would play mental chess games during boring meetings and Quidditch practices, but Harry had never mastered chess enough for the tactic to be useful to him.

_Ron._ Harry could still feel an ache when he concentrated on his friend's loss, though it had been more than a year—and what a year—and so he no longer thought about him every day. _What would you say now? Commiserate with me and plan to knock down the Malfoys? Or would you be disgusted with me for dating a Malfoy in the first place and causing all this fuss?_

Harry was fairly sure Ron would have got over the shock, though, especially if he'd had the time to see Harry and Draco growing closer together the way Hermione had. He was worst with surprises, and plans he hadn't been told about. Harry thought now that their split in fourth year, still the worst argument he'd ever had with Ron, came less from jealousy and more from the fact that he thought Harry had lied to him about sneaking his name into the Goblet of Fire.

On the other hand, if Ron hadn't died, it was extremely unlikely that Harry and Draco would have become closer at all. Harry knew how to brew his own potion extremely well, and he hadn't wanted to sell it. He'd have had no reason to contact Draco.

_Does that mean I had to lose one of them for the other to come into my life? Would I always have had to make that choice?_

Harry shook his head and sat up firmly. He was getting morbid, and brooding on thoughts of death and loss would get him nowhere. He should be thinking, instead, about what would happen when the time for his trial came—if it got that far—or when Aurors arrived to ask him questions.

_What if they bring Ginny?_

Harry sighed into his fingers. He wasn't looking forwards to that, especially when she realized he had gone off the potion. But he wouldn't get back on it just to please her, either. They were still friends, and Harry hoped to retain her friendship. He had made a promise to Draco, though, and that was more important.

_And that is still not a plan to help you decide what you're going to do._

Harry nodded. He thought his best course was to be as calm as he had this evening, going with the Aurors without trouble and then allowing Kingsley to ask him any question he liked. But he would need to be candid as well, or there was a chance his enemies would manage to make it look as if he were lying about the important details as well as the unimportant ones.

_That means I'll have to reveal in more detail how Daphne tortured Draco._ Harry scratched the back of his head, where an itch was starting. _He won't like it. He may refuse to talk about it himself. But then it'll have to be my account of what I saw in his head with the mind-reading potion, or his Pensieve memories. Either way, we've got to prove that I had some sort of cause for breaking into her house and attacking her._

He wondered briefly if they would want to bring her back from the Muggle world, then shrugged to himself. Wizarding prejudice against Squibs might work in his favor there. If Daphne was physically unharmed and living under the delusion that she had never been a wizard in the first place, why disturb her?

_A month ago, you wouldn't have depended on things like the wizarding prejudice against Squibs. You would have thought them horrible; you would have scorned to depend on them._

Even his conscience sounded like Draco now, Harry thought, when it didn't sound like Hermione. He lay down on the cot and fixed his gaze on the gloomy enchanted window, watching the drops of gray water plop into the dark green needles and leaves of the imaginary forest.

And, well, he had come to accept much that he never would have accepted a month ago. That he could use his magic-devouring power for good purposes on occasion. That doing it was better than leaving someone he loved to suffer. That he could use his name and reputation for good purposes, or try; Lucius Malfoy had rather ambushed his attempt to do so. That he could work with a Slytherin and learn their code of behavior.

That he could love Draco Malfoy.

Harry smiled and turned his eyes to the ceiling. That was the core revelation, the one that made all the others worth it. He had eaten Daphne's magic to protect Draco. He had decided to wield the power of his name to protect Draco as well, and to give him back his business and his free and independent life, if he could. He had chosen to work with Millicent because the chances were good that she could help him secure Draco's freedom.

He wanted other things—to make love to him as slowly as possible on a large bed, for instance, and with all the time in the world, and to help him with the Desire potion but otherwise trust him to manage his apothecary by himself. But those were all dependent on Draco getting his old life back.

_Not quite his old life. It will have me in it, too. And someday soon, I'm certain, he'll tell me that he loves me._

Harry let his head fall back on the pillows and his eyes slip closed. He would be candid in the morning and offer his questioners any information they wanted. Those were still the ways he fought best, even if he had learned to be a little Slytherin. In the meantime, the best thing he could do was sleep and make sure he'd had enough rest to be alert for any trick question they might throw at him.

The handle of his door began to turn. Harry sat up immediately. His hand groped instinctively for his wand, and then he rolled his eyes and dropped it to his side. He did concentrate on the wandless magic that had once almost stopped Daphne's heart. If he had to, he would use it to defend himself, though he rather suspected his control over it had changed since he stopped drinking the potion.

_If it's a choice between dying and getting back to Draco alive by using it, though, that's no choice at all._

He was expecting anyone, he thought, from Willowberry to Kingsley to Draco. But his surprise was still great when Narcissa Malfoy stepped into the room and closed the door quietly behind her.

* * *

Littlesmith leaned away from Granger, cringing as though she had already drawn her wand and pointed it at him. Intelligent man, Draco thought. He could sense the danger she carried with her and how little it would be worth his while to balk her.

Then Draco glanced around the dim little office and sniffed. Well, intelligent in some senses. He must have done something relatively stupid to be sent to the Centaur Office.

"What do you want with me?" Littlesmith whispered. "I don't owe you any debts. I've never seen you before in my life. I never—I didn't hurt you." He leaned around Granger to look at Draco and Millicent. "And I certainly don't know who they are! The Ministry's already about to sack me. Why do you want to make it worse?"

His face had more animation now; the indifferent mask he'd assumed before must be a defense against the colleagues who would laugh at him otherwise, Draco thought. He had a fineness to his jawline and chin that might have attracted a woman like Daphne. He was pushing his chair slowly back from the desk, his fingers so tight on the edge of what looked like a drawer that Draco could hear his knuckles popping under the strain.

"You once slept with Daphne Greengrass," Granger said, her voice cold and implacable. Behind Draco, Millicent made a faint sound of what might have been either amusement or approval. "And we're here to make sure that you come with us and tell several other people about that."

Littlesmith blinked and shook his head once. "About what?" Then he seemed to decide he should be outraged. "And in any case, that's private! You have no right to blackmail me about it."

"The way you think things should be is often not the way the world works," Draco drawled.

Granger held up a hand that Draco supposed was meant to subdue him, though he didn't feel at all subdued. He glared at Littlesmith over Granger's shoulder, in fact, and Littlesmith avoided Draco's eyes as best he could, though now and then he would roll one of his own towards Draco in fascinated horror.

"About what she did when you slept with her," Granger said softly. "What techniques she used, and which ones you might have persuaded her not to use on you." Draco relaxed; he had been wondering if Granger would remember that there were some differences between the way Daphne had treated Draco and the way she had treated her other lovers. Simply demanding that Littlesmith recount his own torture would not have worked, because in all likelihood it had not been as bad. "Explain her use of magic."

Littlesmith now looked more and more bewildered. "Why should I?" he asked. "Daphne and I haven't had contact since she decided that I bored her." He paused and looked at them with a sudden sharp alertness that made Draco decide again he had not faded as much as he could have. "Is she in trouble? Do you need me to explain that her magic wasn't evil?"

Granger smiled, and it was such a soft and sympathetic smile Draco blinked. "The context isn't as bad as you think," she said. "What I mostly need you to do is tell the truth in front of a room of people who might include Aurors, the Minister, members of the Wizengamot, and possibly some pure-blood wizards. Will you do that?"

"Well, I." Littlesmith fidgeted and looked at his hands.

Draco nodded slowly. Yes, he thought he was a good judge of this type of man, the one who had once been on heights of glory where he scarcely believed he belonged and then sunk from them. Once, he had had a career in the Ministry. Once, he had been the lover of a witch as beautiful and accomplished as Daphne Greengrass. Nothing else in his life could stand up to those memories. And if he was at all similar to those other men Draco had known, brewed potions for, and charged dozens or even hundreds of Galleons, he would want to relive those moments. Doing it in front of an audience would embarrass him, but cause him a sneaking sort of pride also.

_Now it only remains to be seen if the pride is stronger than the embarrassment. _Draco changed his grip on his wand, preparing to cast a slight softening spell, if necessary, which would nudge Littlesmith's thoughts in the right direction.

But Littlesmith coughed after a moment, and nodded. "Who else is involved in this case?" he asked. "Why are my memories so important?" He made a gesture around the Centaur Office, his face suddenly bright red, and kept his eyes on his desk. "I mean, I'm no one important in and of myself."

Granger gave him another one of those soft smiles. "But this is a time when you could be," she said. "It's a case involving Harry Potter—"

"_Really_?" Littlesmith's head had risen again, and a desperate hopefulness sparkled in his eyes.

Draco controlled the impulse to spit with contempt, but it was difficult. _Star-chaser._ The wizarding world had few celebrities compared to the Muggle world, and Harry was hardly a celebrity for the ordinary reasons. Draco had long since become resigned to the effect that the Potter name would have on even those who had never seen him and had not a hope of catching his attention. Before this year, though, he hadn't had a reason to feel a personal resentment and jealousy. He didn't want random people chasing every little mention of Harry and trying to use it to enhance their reputations. It was distasteful. They were taking away distinction that should have belonged to Draco.

Not that he would really use that distinction, of course, because it would hurt Harry. But still. It was his.

Luckily, Littlesmith was looking at Granger, whom he seemed to have accepted as their leader, and not at Draco when his face went through its spasm of revulsion. "Harry Potter," he whispered in a dreamy tone. Then he nodded. "I'll do it. Just tell me when I need to go to the—the Minister and I'll do it."

"Now would be a fine time," said Granger briskly, and reached for his arm.

"What?" Littlesmith blinked again, which seemed to be his defining gesture. "But it's the evening."

"I have the Minister's personal Floo address," said Granger, making Littlesmith stare hard at her. Then he pointed a finger, which trembled. He let his hand fall, maybe because he had just realized that pointing a finger at a war heroine wasn't a good idea.

"You're Hermione Granger," he said, voice only a little less awed. Draco rolled his eyes. _Good. Maybe he'll go after Granger instead and leave Harry alone._

"Yes, I am," said Granger. She leaned towards Littlesmith and poured a passion into her voice Draco frankly hadn't known she had in her. "And I would like to rescue my friend. Are you going to help me do that?"

Littlesmith nodded, face dazed with happiness. Granger pulled on his arm, and this time he rose to his feet and paraded past her towards the door of the Centaur Office, glancing over his shoulder now and then as if to verify that Granger was there and this wasn't a dream.

Millicent gripped Draco's shoulder. Draco leaned back towards her, and Millicent murmured into his ear, "I approve of her tactics. I suppose there's something to be said for friendships with Gryffindors after all."

"These Gryffindors, at least," said Draco, and Millicent chuckled. They followed Granger and the enraptured Littlesmith towards the lifts, and though Draco kept a sharp look-out for anyone who might be approaching them, for once they seemed to have stolen a march on their enemies. They reached a fireplace unmolested, and soon Granger was speaking to a sleepy Shacklebolt whilst Draco tried to keep himself from imagining how close to Harry he must be right now.

He hoped he wasn't being mistreated.

* * *

"Mr. Potter," said Narcissa, in the same cold, emotionless voice she had used that afternoon.

Once again, Harry didn't intend to play games. "How did you get into my cell?" he demanded. "The only ones who could come in had written permission from the Minister, and I don't think it's advisable for the people who brought the charges to meet with the accused criminal."

"The right people are convinced that I did indeed have written permission from the Minister," said Narcissa, with a flicker of a smile that reminded Harry of the way an adder might have grinned, if it could. She conjured a chair with a flicker of her wand. Harry kept a sharp eye on it. That she had a wand and he didn't wasn't the only important factor in this conversation, but it was one of the most important. She sat down in the chair, arranged her robes around her, and stared at him.

Harry wasn't in the mood to play staring games, either. "That's interesting," he said. "And it doesn't tell me why you wanted to go to the trouble of casting the Imperius Curse in the Ministry simply to see me."

"There are worse spells than the Imperius Curse." Narcissa was looking at him with a face so distant and pale, like the half-moon, that Harry found it hard to remember the tone of voice with which she had whispered to him in the Forbidden Forest, asking him where Draco was. _Is she so different now just because Draco is in danger from me, and not Voldemort? Or did something else happen in the last few years to convince her that she'll never that desperate again? _"Never doubt, Mr. Potter, that I will use them on you if I must." She leveled her wand at him, but her voice didn't change, making the threat more eerie. "I came to extract a promise from you. Stay away from Draco."

Harry bared his teeth. "No."

"We will give Draco a laboratory," said Narcissa. "We will give him the ability to buy the ingredients he needs, even to sell Desire potion if he wishes. It is not such a bad potion for someone who carries a pure-blood heritage and a reputation to sell. We will shelter him, protect him from Charlemagne Diggory, and see that he is in good standing with the Ministry when this affair is finished. But you will not be part of his life."

"Do you really think he'll want to become a flunkey just to avoid having Diggory after him?" Harry asked incredulously.

"A distasteful word to apply to a Malfoy." Narcissa hadn't blinked since she sat down, Harry thought, and if it weren't for the words she spoke, he wouldn't have been willing to swear she drew breath, either. "Draco is not and never will be one. And you will not be part of his life. His lover—" her face changed, but returned to its normal cold calm too fast for Harry to be sure what the emotion was "—will be someone else, someone we have chosen and acknowledged as fit for our son."

"Do you know what Daphne Greengrass did to him?" Harry demanded. "Do you know why I devoured her magic?"

"The reason hardly matters," said Narcissa. "We cannot allow someone who would take his magic to be near Draco. You will not be part of his life."

"Saying that over and over again won't get me to believe it," Harry said crossly. "Daphne tortured him. She _raped _hm. She used Legilimency and Memory Charms to force him to be uncertain what he'd done in bed with her, whether he had agreed to the way she violated him or not. She used curses that made it impossible for him to describe the problem or tell me who she was. He nearly died when some of those curses activated. He nearly died when his shop collapsed. He nearly died when Daphne captured him again. And you have the _gall_ to tell me that I'm worse than that?" He had risen to his feet by now, though he didn't try to come closer to Narcissa. There was the wand leveled at his chest, after all. "Let Draco make his own decisions. You certainly didn't care about his life when he was in danger before."

"That was his life," Narcissa said. "This is his magic."

Harry stared at her, unable to find his voice for long moments. "You're insane," he said finally.

"I do not expect you to understand. Those who come from Mudblood backgrounds often do not." Narcissa shifted so that she was aiming the wand at Harry's head before he had time to react to the insult to his mother. "We can give him a happy life with his magic at full strength. You never can, not when you might drain him for the sake of some petty argument."

"I would never hurt Draco—"

"One more chance, Potter," Narcissa whispered. "If lovers care more about each other's happiness than anything else, you ought to take this one."

Harry drew a deep breath and put all the force of his conviction into the words he said next. "Fuck you."

Narcissa's face drained of color, down to her lips. Then she lifted her wand higher. It was level with his temple now.

"I think I should tell you I can resist the Imperius Curse," Harry said cheerfully.

Narcissa ignored him. "_Duco aeternum_," she said.

Harry's world became unreal for just a moment before it folded, gently, into the worst pain he had ever known.


	12. Resistance and Breaking

Thank you again for all the reviews!

_Chapter Twelve—Resistance and Breaking_

The pain chewed through the corners and defenses of Harry's mind, through magic that he hadn't realized existed, through strands of thought that had supported his assumptions and memories for years. He could feel it replacing those corners and defenses and magic and strands of thought with itself, replicating like a Muggle virus, leaving the inside of his skull as washed and clean and sterile as a new cauldron.

He braced his feet against the floor—which might be a real one or might be imagined, like the current of water that had carried him into Draco's mind—and fought hopelessly back.

The pain grew stronger, and then turned into a whispering voice, layering commands over the top of his own thoughts, sinking deeper, replacing _them_, too. _I will not take up Draco Malfoy's time anymore. I will do what I can to give him freedom and happiness, and freedom and happiness mean being reunited with his family. I will step away from him and urge him to go back to his parents._

_That won't work, _Harry thought, his head hazy. _Draco would know something was wrong if I just turned around and changed my mind about everything I've believed for weeks now._

The force of the spell changed, and blades of ice began to slice Harry's justifications apart. _But if he can sense the truth of my inclinations, then he'll have to go back. He'll learn that I had an enlightening conversation with his mother in the prison cell, and that she made her love for Draco and her desire to support him clear to me. I've got to give him back to the life he was always meant to lead. What is better, after all, than the magic and the security of a pure-blood home for a business like selling the Desire potion?_

Harry was gasping, twisting, thrashing in the middle of a frozen sea that ate a little more of him every time he paused. His true thoughts had either frozen as well or were gone. He could feel the parts of his personality and his mind that were still _his _swimming in an increasingly small circle. He was being formed into the image of the perfect person that Narcissa could command and use for her own ends.

_Narcissa and Diggory, _Harry thought. He was certain Charlemagne Diggory was behind the ease with which Narcissa had walked into his cell. If Diggory could arrange for one of his own relatives to sit on the Potions committee that would judge Desire, then he could arrange for his flunkies to get Kingsley's people out of the way for a short time.

If Diggory could command Harry to support him, then more people than Draco might suffer.

But he had no weapons, and meanwhile the crystallizing of his mind continued, not so much painful now as inevitable, destroying him.

* * *

Kingsley Shacklebolt up close at this time of night looked like only one more wizard, Draco thought, and tried to hide his contempt as the Minister yawned and then cast a _Tempus _Charm, shaking his head at the numbers that appeared.

"I agree that he'll need to be allowed to go ahead," said Shacklebolt, with a nod at Littlesmith. The man bit his lip, and tried not to show that he was flattered too openly. Draco swallowed laughter. "But it would be for the best if the opposition didn't know that he existed yet. Mr. Littlesmith, do you mind staying out of sight in a special safehouse until the day comes when you're called to the trial?"

Littlesmith shook his head, beaming. Draco thought the arrangements were rather exciting him. _Finally, _his body proclaimed as he sat upright in his seat, slightly vibrating, _someone thinks I'm important!_

"Good." Shacklebolt studied the list in his hand. "The Malfoys have already requested Harry's genealogical charts, to check for any magical creature blood. And they've—" He cleared his throat. "They've also requested that the Wizengamot be allowed to view the Pensieve memories that show Harry eating magic."

"Do you have to allow that?" Draco asked. He was encouraged by the fact that Shacklebolt had let himself be dragged out of bed for Harry. Perhaps they could presume on that friendship and free Harry that much sooner.

Shacklebolt gave him a heavy look, however, which warned Draco not to presume _that _much. "Yes, I do," he said stiffly. "It's normal procedure, especially in a case as unusual as this one, and with larger implications for the wizarding world as a whole, which will be judged by the Wizengamot. The Wizengamot, of course, is free to reject the evidence if they don't think it relevant or decide it was obtained improperly, but I can't make the decision for them." He again looked at the list of items and crossed one of them off. Then he nodded to Littlesmith. "If you'll exit the office, Mr. Littlesmith, you'll find one of the Aurors waiting to escort you to the safehouse I mentioned."

Littlesmith paraded out, glancing back at Granger now and then. He appeared disappointed when she didn't return the look, though he slipped out silently. Granger leaned forwards the moment he was gone, eyes fastened on Shacklebolt.

"You know why they're doing this," she said. "They're Diggory's allies, and they don't want Harry in the way of his political run. And they're Malfoy's parents, and they think Harry should be as far away from their son as possible."

Shacklebolt sighed and dragged the back of his hand across his eyes, leaving it on his forehead for a moment. "Yes, I know that, Hermione," he said. "I'm neither blind nor stupid."

"Then how can you allow it to go on?" Granger's voice was deep with passion but controlled, something Draco had thought he would never hear from any Gryffindor. Her hand told the truth, of course, coiling around a piece of paper from Shacklebolt's desk and turning it into a wrinkled mess. "How can you let something like this happen to Harry, when you _know _it's wrong?"

"There are delicate considerations," Shacklebolt said, and looked at her again. "Diggory's running a strong campaign now, concentrating on the changes he'll make to the Ministry—which include changes that would favor Muggleborns, incidentally. I reckon he knows that his allies will take care of Harry." He sighed. "And if I fight back too much against him, I'll show I'm afraid of him. So far, my own campaign is based on stoicism, and making changes to the Ministry and the wizarding world in general as though I always expected to be in office to make them."

"You can show that you're strong in other ways." Granger leaned even nearer, and Draco didn't think all the light in her eyes came from Desire. He experienced a sudden and unexpected stab of regret that he hadn't made friends with her in Hogwarts. That passion and determination and unwavering loyalty backing him up would have made his life very different. "By acknowledging the debt the Ministry owes Harry and has never paid. By showing that you despise underhanded political moves, and you're going to change things by challenging that kind of corruption. By—"

"By showing that Harry's above the law?" Shacklebolt shook his head, his eyes weary. "I can't do that, Hermione, and dismissing the charges would argue a blindness to the larger political ground that I simply can't afford. He's like any other citizen, something he's often said himself. He has to be tried fairly."

"But you know it won't be fair," Draco said. He could no longer keep silent. Directness and forthrightness was all very fine—he suspected Shacklebolt had been a Gryffindor—but one didn't allow devotion to those tactics to let one's loved ones be hurt. "You know that the Wizengamot is also full of people who despise Harry and want to hurt him. And any powerful wizard is a target of fear as well as envy."

Shacklebolt gave him a steady look that made Draco suspect Diggory was not the only person in the Ministry who didn't really like Draco himself. "I know that, but any underhanded tactics would be easy to expose, and that would increase the resentment against Harry, as well as the distrust of me. It would make me more likely to lose the election, as well. It's best to be as honest as possible—"

"In which case your enemies _make up_ the rumors about you," Millicent cut in, her voice smooth and sharp as a glass knife. Draco was glad he wasn't the only Slytherin in the room. "And the wizarding public has never shown itself unready to believe the slightest shred of gossip they hear."

"What would you suggest, then?" The Minister was also good at keeping sarcasm out of his voice. He sounded sincerely interested in Millicent's suggestion. "Diggory has more experience at this, no matter how imperative it might be for me to adopt some of his strategies." His voice held disdain on those last words, but Draco thought it was more practiced than anything else.

"I suggest a tactic Potter had already started to try before he was shoved into a prison cell," said Millicent. "Turn to those who would like to use his influence and show them what a bad idea it would be if he were imprisoned and they were unable to use him."

"Harry wouldn't like that," Granger said at once.

"He went to the party at my parents' house specifically to meet owners of charitable foundations and the like he hoped would be there," Draco told her. "He doesn't like the power of his name, no, but he's finally becoming worldly enough to realize it's better to use it than to hide from it."

"Make the truth of his imprisonment known," said Millicent. "That would happen in any case. But make sure that the people who would be most dismayed on learning of Potter's imprisonment know who brought the charges and why. The knowledge of the alliance between the Malfoys and Diggory isn't yet common knowledge. Make it so."

Shacklebolt said nothing for long moments. Then he sighed. "I could do this," he said. "But I'm not entirely convinced it's the right thing to do."

"Neither am I," said Granger, and set her jaw. Draco knew they had to hurry before Granger convinced herself it really _wasn't _right. They couldn't waste the time fighting her on it would take, and she was more useful as an ally.

"You were the one who told us this was about more people than Harry," Draco said. He spoke as gently and persuasively as he could, trying to make it sound as if he really did care about all the faceless idiots Shacklebolt had mentioned. "Using these tactics will help you stay in power and prevent Diggory from getting his hands on the Wizengamot or the Ministry. Isn't that what you want?"

Shacklebolt gave him an unexpectedly grim smile. "I'm no stranger to temptation, Mr. Malfoy, and I don't think—"

Someone knocked on the door of the Minister's office so hard that it rattled in its frame. Granger immediately turned to face it, and Draco thought she would blast anyone who came through it with a curse. But instead, she made several sharp passes, and he, Millicent, and Granger herself all vanished under simultaneous Disillusionment Charms.

As though he had expected this, Shacklebolt called out without any sign of surprise, "Yes, I'm here."

One of the Aurors who had come to their flat to collect Harry opened the door and sagged against it. His name was Willowberry, from what Draco remembered. His face was pale, and stained with sweat. But somehow, he managed to speak around the heaving breaths that tore through him instead of gasping and rendering his message incomprehensible. Maybe that was special training all Aurors received.

"Sir! I went to check one more time on the Potter prisoner and make sure procedures are being followed, and his cell is warded with Dark magic! Two of the Aurors along the way display signs of Memory Charms, and the others are missing!"

Shacklebolt cursed softly in his throat and began to run with Willowberry at his side. Draco followed, his wand slipping into his hand. He knew what Dark magic meant. He doubted Diggory would use any in the Ministry, this close to the election that he hoped would set him decisively in power.

But he would have the power to allow someone else to enter—someone who would have no compunctions about using that kind of magic.

* * *

More and more of Harry's defenses cracked and froze and fell away. The deadly cold was all around him, creeping in.

It was worse than possession by Voldemort, because that, at least, he had been able to reject with his entire soul. But he knew that when Narcissa's spell reached and destroyed his innermost sanctuary, he would be _someone _else, rewritten like a piece of parchment. There would nothing of him left to reject the new thoughts anymore.

He might have used his wandless magic against her, he thought, bitter and numb and freezing to death, even if it wasn't as obedient as before thanks to his dropping of his potion. But she was still Draco's mother. No matter what Draco believed, no matter that Harry knew the relations between Draco and his parents were not the best, he hesitated to damage someone who had once been so important to the man he loved. And if he had killed or deeply wounded Narcissa, he didn't think Draco would be able to forgive him.

_So, instead, I'll die._

Harry snarled and shattered the thought, but it didn't go far. Already he could hear the new voice that would become his and speak through his lips whispering different truths. _I'll live, and send Draco far away from me. It's what he deserves. I won't fit into his life, and he won't fit into mine. He'll always have people to support and shelter him, and that's the important thing. He'll retain his magic, and that's important, too._

The pressure crept inwards, buckling the last defenses of his mind, forcing them open, forcing him to acknowledge that his presence in Draco's life was disruptive and it would be for the best if he left. Harry had one moment when he truly believed that, and he couldn't throw the belief away as he could have if someone was trying to force Imperius on him.

And then he thought of the way Draco had struggled to build an independent life for himself, and his devastation when his shop collapsed, and that he wouldn't be able to build his fortune again with Desire, which he couldn't brew without Harry—

And he had a weapon after all, the one thing Narcissa's commanding will could not take from him, because it was violent and wild and hot, and she didn't understand it any more than Voldemort had.

His love for Draco burst through him, seared the last parts of his mind that he could call his own, and then attacked the spell.

* * *

They reached the holding cells, and then Shacklebolt and Willowberry both came to a stop, swaying on their heels. Their faces were faintly sick for a few moments. Draco knew the disgust would quickly build to nausea. Granger was already coughing, her hand across her mouth as if she thought that could diminish the impact of the spell. The Disillusionment Charms faded as her concentration faltered, but Willowberry, aside from giving them a single startled glance, didn't react.

Draco forced his way past them and forwards. Millicent was beside him immediately, her lip curled but her face no more than normally green.

They had been in the Slytherin common room together, and they were the children of pure-blood political parents. They'd had the chance to grow accustomed to this kind of Dark magic, which functioned in part by literally repulsing those who tried to get close to it.

Being able to get close to the door did not mean being able to break the ward. Draco drew out his wand and murmured a Revealing Charm. The air flashed once and revealed a dense net of deep purple strands knotted together above the door's surface. Draco snarled under his breath. He didn't know of any single spell that could break this one from the outside, but the person who had cast it could dissipate it and get out at once.

"Let me."

Millicent strode up to stand at his shoulder. Draco let her go by doubtfully; he didn't think her father could have taught her magic that his parents didn't know.

_On the other hand, _he thought, his fingers digging into the skin of his wand arm as he watched Millicent examine the door in a leisurely fashion, _maybe my parents didn't teach me to break this ward precisely because they knew they might have to use it against me someday. _It was paranoid thinking, but paranoid thinking was useful around Lucius and Narcissa Malfoy.

Millicent nodded and then stepped back. Draco waited for her to say that she had no idea how to break the spell. She would wear that same calm expression whether she had succeeded or failed, after all. She had done that during the days when she failed exams in Slytherin House.

But Millicent pointed her wand at the ward and said an incantation that resembled, "_Accido ceram!_"

An extremely bad smell, like burning metal, rose up from the ward. Draco took a step back, holding his hand over his nose, and thought briefly that he was imitating Granger. But there were tiny flashes and flares of light darting over the indigo knots of the ward, and though they were coiling tighter, as they had done whenever Draco attempted to break this spell in the past, they were also burning through. In moments, the ward fell apart into a shower of particles like pepper and vanished, leaving the surface of the door scorched but still usable.

Behind him, he could hear Granger asking Millicent how she did that, and Millicent saying something about Muggle computers, but he didn't care. He used a quick spell that would reneder his hand cooler than normal, just in case the knob was hot from the remnants of the Dark magic, and then threw the door open.

* * *

The spell retreated only a short distance before the onslaught of love Harry threw at it. Then it started coming back, more slowly but still with a dull determination that nearly made Harry despair.

He decided that love's wild, uncontrollable nature was his best defense, though, and summoned more and more of it. Narcissa's spell was designed to instill him with the same relentless logic that guided her in dealing with Draco. And that was the reason she kept letting her son slip through her fingers, too. She didn't understand his passion. Harry highly doubted that she would understand his, but if he focused on the same memories all the time, her magic might be able to get used to and overcome them.

So, instead, he conjured memory after memory: the way Draco had looked when Harry pulled him from his shop; his sated and overjoyed expression after Harry had sucked him off; the passionate way he approached the brewing the first time they managed a successful cauldron of Desire; his strong, tender hold when Harry had used the wandless magic at the Malfoys' party and had needed someone to support him; the murderous look on his face if he ever heard of what his mother had done.

Harry felt another upsurge of concern and worry and affection as he thought of that last possibility. He didn't want to damage Draco's relationship with his parents anymore than he already had. Draco must not know, if Harry could avoid it.

He opened his eyes when he could, when the last shards of Narcissa's spell were melting like icebergs set floating on a lava flow, and realized almost at once that he probably wouldn't have managed to win if Narcissa hadn't been distracted by something else. She was facing the door of the holding cell, her wand moving as if she were creating many small, individual wards across its surface.

Harry clenched his fists together, wondering whether he should pretend to be under her control for a moment longer, so that she wouldn't try and renew the spell, or distract her so she wouldn't hurt whoever might be on the other side of the door.

And then he thought that Draco could be trying to reach him, and that meant the decision was made.

He cleared his throat.

Narcissa spun to face him, her lips and her nostrils both shut so tightly Harry was surprised she could still breathe. She lifted a hand as if she would use wandless magic of her own, and then recovered and aimed her wand.

"Whatever that spell was," Harry pointed out helpfully, "it didn't work." He saw the door shudder twice, as if with hard impacts, and then someone seized the knob. He brought his eyes back to Narcissa's face at once when it started to swing inwards, and lifted his voice. "I wasn't in any serious danger from it anyway."

Draco stood framed in the door at his mother's back, his wand pointing directly at her. His face wore an expression Harry had never seen on it before, though its closest equivalent came from those terrible moments when he had hesitated on the roof of the Tower and listened to Dumbledore offer him another choice. His eyes met Harry's, and a flash like a firework went through them.

"You'll excuse me if I don't believe that for a moment," he said.

Narcissa sighed and put her wand in her sleeve. She was good, at least, Harry thought, leaning against the wall as dizziness and leftover pain from fighting the spell took him. The moment she realized her plan had faltered, she chose a new one. She faced Draco and shook her head. "He is right, Draco," she said. "I was trying to threaten him to get him to cooperate, but I would not have hurt him. I know that would alienate you from us forever."

Harry held his breath, hoping the deception would work. He had survived Narcissa's attempt to control him, and he doubted the spell—which he thought translated to something like _I control eternally—_had done him any lasting harm. Surely it was better for Draco to believe that his mother wouldn't stoop that low. Harry wanted to be with Draco, but he wanted Draco to have his family, too.

"You're a liar," Draco said, not a muscle of his face shifting other than those he needed to talk. He lifted his gaze to Harry, and his eyes were brilliant again, but this time with fury. "And I know she tried to wound you. Don't you _dare _try to spare her, Harry. The mandate of hero doesn't cover people like her."

Harry flinched from the contempt in his voice. But he lowered his eyes to the floor and nodded. The motion started to tip him forwards, but he caught himself with an elbow on the wall in time. There was really no _reason _for the speed with which Draco leaped across the floor between them and seized Harry in his arms.

Draco hissed a spell under his breath, and Harry blinked, nearly blinded by the indigo glow that issued from his head. Draco cradled him closer and stroked his brow, tracing his scar. "She used Dark magic on you," he whispered. "You won't spare her. You won't lie for her. You need a Healer to look at you, Harry."

"Mrs. Malfoy," Kingsley's voice said from the corridor, "we have a few questions to ask you."

Harry sighed and leaned his head on Draco's shoulder. "I just wanted you to have a chance of _liking _your parents, still," he said.

Draco clenched his fingers down on Harry's chin, but didn't turn Harry to face him. "Liking them is of much less importance to me at the moment than loving you," he said, and his voice shook a little.

Harry looked up slowly, straining to catch Draco's eyes again. If those last words had meant what he thought they meant—

And that was when he fell unconscious.


	13. Combinations of Justice

Thanks again for all the reviews!

_Chapter Thirteen—Combinations of Justice_

Harry opened his eyes slowly. He knew by the cool color of the walls around him that he was in St. Mungo's, on the Spell Damage ward. He hadn't had to visit this place very often himself since he hadn't chosen an Auror's career, but he'd visited plenty of friends here.

He let one hand smooth carefully along the covers, searching for his glasses and his wand. Someone caught his fingers. Harry turned his head sharply, though he couldn't imagine that Narcissa Malfoy was sitting beside his hospital bed. Of course, he hadn't imagined she'd be able to intrude into the Ministry either.

"Harry," said Hermione's voice from the fuzzy bristle that was all he could see of her. "Do you feel well enough to eat?"

"I'm well enough to hear the news, Hermione," said Harry impatiently, and was gratified to hear his voice clear and strong and normal. They must have given him water whilst he was unconscious. Of course, there could be a question about how long he had been unconscious. He hoped it was only a few hours, but his luck didn't run that way. "How long was I out? What did the Healers find in my mind? What happened to Mrs. Malfoy? Is Draco all right?"

"At least you have the sense to ask after yourself first," Hermione muttered, and then spoke to someone. Harry wondered if a Healer had been hovering nearby, listening to their conversation, or if St. Mungo's had installed the voice crystals they'd been talking about for some time, which would conduct the words of anyone who spoke directly to it to listening mediwizards. "And nothing has happened to Malfoy in the seven hours since you fell unconscious," she added, relieving Harry's worry before it could start. "Mrs. Malfoy is in custody. The Healers found strange traces of Dark magic on you, and there'll be a few effects that last some time." She sighed out heavily. "Malfoy told me about what you said when he came into the cell. _Why _did you lie for her, Harry?"

"It wasn't a conscious decision," Harry began. Hermione finally slapped his glasses into his questing hand, and he slid them onto his nose. He snorted when he saw her disbelieving expression. "I mean, I did choose to do it, yes, but it was more because I don't want Draco alienated from his parents forever than because—"

He fell silent before Hermione's pointed look. "Do you think," she whispered, "if the Weasleys were mad enough to do something like that to me, that Ron would have wanted me to lie just so he could forgive his parents later?"

"You have a lower opinion of the Weasleys than I thought, if—"

"Don't try to distract me, Harry." Hermione braced a hand on the edge of the bed and leaned forwards. "And before you can whinge at me about Malfoy not wanting his private concerns discussed, he was the one who told me to ask these questions. He'd be here to ask them himself, but he's still answering questions about his mother's wand and what other Dark magic she might have used to enter the Ministry. She's refusing to talk, of course, and they can't force her to take Veritaserum."

Harry chewed his lips for a moment. "What about me? I'm still in custody, aren't I?"

Hermione nodded. "Yes, but there are spells on you to make sure that you can't use wandless magic without triggering four dozen alarm wards, and your wand is in the Ministry. You'll return to the holding cells when they're certain you're well. They're not as worried about you as they are about Mrs. Malfoy."

"That's new."

"You didn't see Shacklebolt. He looked as though he'd just snared a tiger he'd been hunting for years." Hermione smiled briefly. "Not the sort of thing you want to get close to, but on the other hand, he can't wait to take its claws and teeth away."

A Healer bustled in just then, preventing Harry from answering. She was an older woman he didn't recognize, with a face so plain that he could readily believe her patients mixed her up with other Healers and mediwitches. She examined him for a moment, pointed her wand at his head, and murmured a spell he couldn't hear. Harry tensed, but she only said, "I won't hurt you, Mr. Potter. And yes, the spell damage is healing. But it will be some time before you can stop taking precautions."

"Precautions?" Harry didn't like the thought of anything that might interrupt his relationship with Draco. "The spell was trying to freeze my emotions. Will I have to worry about that happening? Or will the person who cast it—" he heard Hermione snort from the side, but it was his choice if he didn't want to mention the name "—gain any sort of control over me from a distance?"

The Healer smiled, and her whole face was transformed when she did. Harry blinked and the smile was gone, but it lingered in his mind, and he found himself relaxing and smiling back. "Nothing like that. You will be subject to fainting fits. I'd advise not riding a broom for the next few weeks if you can avoid it. As well, stay in company as much as possible. We've sometimes seen cases like this where a patient left alone fell, struck his head on something sharp, and died without help."

Harry nodded soberly. He didn't plan to be far from Draco or Hermione in any case.

"You may also experience sudden surges of emotion, as your mind and soul try to compensate for the moments when they were under domination." The Healer spoke briskly as she examined the contents of one of her robe pockets. She clucked her tongue in satisfaction a moment later, and drew out a vial filled with a brilliant orange potion that caused Harry to wrinkle his nose just looking at it. The Healer waved the vial at him. "This potion is only to be taken after you experience one of those surges and it's completely gone. Even if you find yourself raging or crying—"

Harry shuddered.

"_Wait. _This potion is commonly taken earlier by men who can't stand the thought of being weak, and the effects aren't pleasant when you do that." The Healer looked at him sternly. "Do you understand?"

"I'll make sure he follows instructions, Healer Mordant," Hermione said, in the voice she'd used when she found Harry sleeping in the library instead of studying for his OWLs.

_Mordant? _Harry tried to mouth to Hermione, but she was looking at the potion and the Healer, and not at him. The woman simply nodded, handed the vial to Hermione, and then left the room after casting a few more spells on Harry, which seemed to assure her that everything was well. She did mention before vanishing that a mediwizard would be in Harry's room soon with a tray of food.

"Mordant?" Harry asked when the door was safely shut between them and the Healer. "Seriously?"

"You've heard worse names," Hermione said absently as she turned the potion over in her hands. "How interesting. This one seems to do some of what your old potion did, but I wonder why it's supposed to be taken after the fit rather than before? Probably due to the infusion of crushed gooseberries I can smell—"

"Please tell me more about what happened," Harry interrupted. He hoped he didn't sound as snappish and impatient as he felt, but if he let Hermione wander away into a research spiel, God knew when he would get her back. "What will Kingsley do now? Will Draco come and see me soon?"

Hermione reluctantly laid the potion on her lap and looked him in the eye. "Shacklebolt is considering matters seriously at the moment," she said. "And that's all I know, because that's all he'll tell anyone. But we did have a chance to talk to him before we came to your cell—Malfoy, and Bulstrode, and I." Harry felt a stab of disappointment that he'd been deprived of the chance to see Hermione and Millicent meet for the first time. "He agreed that it wasn't very fair to let Diggory use you to gain his political ends, but on the other hand, if he moves openly, he's worried about what people will say concerning his politics." She made a noise of disgust and frustration. "But we didn't get a chance to finish the conversation, either. So the answer is that I really can't guess what will happen next. Maybe we'll know more when the questioning of Mrs. Malfoy—or Malfoy, really, since he's the one who's giving them all their information—is finished. Depending on the seriousness of the charges he can bring against her and what can be proved of her connection with Diggory, maybe Kingsley will change his tactics."

_She's calling him Kingsley now, _Harry noted. _That's a hopeful sign. At least she isn't as irritated at him as she could be. _"And maybe not," he said. "This is a politically ticklish position I'm in—"

"You're as bad as you were when you decided not to injure Mrs. Malfoy." Hermione leaned forwards. "And don't think you'll get out of answering that question. Malfoy was very insistent about it. 'Does he think I'll give him up for anyone, even my bitch of a mother?' was, I believe, the way he phrased it."

"I highly doubt that he called his own mother a bitch," said Harry, when he could breathe past the sudden clutch of breath in his throat.

"Maybe not," said Hermione. She was smiling again, but it was a faint, pinched smile, and Harry knew that the question was hurting her. "There are other things I want to ask, Harry, and other things I want to tell you—though, as I said, God knows what's going to happen next. Or I hope someone does, because _I_ don't. But now tell me why you're holding your magic back. You certainly never forbore to defend yourself against Bellatrix Lestrange, or Voldemort, or anyone else."

"They weren't dear to people I loved at the time," Harry said quietly. "Hermione, what would have happened if Percy had turned out to be a Death Eater, the way we thought he might?" Ron had mentioned the thought as one that haunted his nightmares during the year they were on the run. "Or if some member of your family had turned against you?"

Hermione was silent for long moments, then said, "I think I've never been so grateful to be Muggleborn."

Harry nodded. "And that's the reason," he said. "I couldn't hurt Mrs. Malfoy, even if she really is a Death Eater in heart and soul and always was. She's Draco's _mother_. How in the world would he live with the grief and the guilt, if he thought that his relationship with me played some part in her killing?"

"I'm glad that I'm Muggleborn," Hermione said loudly, "because that means there was no chance of anyone in my family being a Death Eater, and thus no chance of you holding back _stupidly _in the war." She leaned forwards, and Harry drew back. Her face looked like the face of a Fury at the moment; Harry had been hired to take photographs of some statues of the Furies on a Muggle building that a client wanted duplicated on his own home. "Harry, you _can't _just lie back and accept what happens to you because of who's doing it."

Harry clenched his hands into fists in front of him and didn't answer. He still didn't know how to tell anyone about the way he had endured the Dursleys' insults when he was young because he had hoped they would love him if he was good enough. After that he had endured the insults because of sheer determination not to let them see him cry, but the first impulse still remained with him. And he had buried some of his worse disagreements with Ron and Hermione, at least after they were all adults, because he didn't want to listen to the long arguments that resulted.

_The potion probably helped. I wonder if I'll get angry more often as the potion works its way out of my system? _Harry grimaced. _And will I be able to tell when that happens as distinct from the emotional surges I might suffer as a result of Mrs. Malfoy's curse?_

"You can't," Hermione repeated. "And if you really won't defend yourself against the Malfoys, then Bulstrode and I are going to do something permanent about them."

Harry snapped his eyes up to her face again. "Hermione, you _can't._"

"Malfoy gave us permission." Hermione smiled at him, and once again it was a Fury's smile. "He only said that he didn't want to know what we were planning, so there was no way he could betray it or persuade himself to interfere."

Harry shut his eyes. He couldn't reconcile the words Hermione reported Draco had spoken with the grief and pain he'd seen in Draco's mind when he viewed those memories of the Malfoys. Draco regretted his rupture with his parents; he must. He would have gone back to them if he could. Allowing Hermione and Millicent to hurt Lucius and Narcissa, or not convincing Draco to stop them, would be as wrong as making Narcissa a Squib in the first place.

Then Harry shivered. If he thought that Draco didn't want this to happen, he would have to accuse either Draco or Hermione of lying. And he could not believe that, not with the part of him that had called upon the memories of his love and burned away the control Narcissa had over his mind. At best, he would be second-guessing Draco and acting against him for no better reason than because _he_ would feel regret and grief if his parents were alive and he were fighting them.

But maybe the situation really was different. Slowly, Harry forced himself to remember what he had actually seen in Draco's mind, instead of what he had anticipated finding there, or what he thought most natural, or what he wanted for Draco. And along with Draco's pain that he had had to break away at all was the irritation that his parents were so stupid as to let themselves be trapped into false beliefs in the first place, anger that they'd never changed their minds, and regret that they'd made his own path in life harder.

Those emotions were all real. Harry knew he would ignore them at his peril, just as he would stand in Hermione and Millicent's way at his peril.

He sighed and then looked up. Someone was coming towards the door, from the footsteps in the corridor: probably the mediwizard with the tray of food. Harry leaned towards Hermione swiftly. "Promise me that you won't kill them," he said.

"I have no intention of being tried for murder," said Hermione loftily. "Or for use of Dark Arts. Or for anything."

It wasn't a promise to be merciful to Lucius and Narcissa; it wasn't a promise to be anything but undetectable, really. And it was all Harry had time or right to ask for. He leaned back against his pillow and nodded to Hermione.

As he ate the unappetizing lunch the mediwizard served him, Hermione told him how Willowberry had alerted them to Harry's danger, and their project of going to the Ministry to retrieve Littlesmith in the first place. By the end of the recitation, Harry was smiling, and telling himself that of _course _he could trust Hermione.

And then he was left alone, since Hermione had patted his hand and told him Draco would be along shortly, and for the first time he could return to the memory of the words spoken just before he'd passed out.

_He loves me. _

_Maybe that's why he was willing to see me stand up to his mother, if it would make her stop hurting me._

* * *

"If you're certain there's nothing else you can tell us, Mr. Malfoy?"

"I think I've told you even more than I remembered," Draco said dryly, staring at the list he'd compiled, and shaking his hand to ease the cramp where his fingers had practically molded to the quill. He'd written out lists of the Dark Arts spells he knew his mother could perform, as well as every spell he'd heard her mention as one she'd studied. He'd listed the potions he'd observed her brewing, which were fewer than the spells. There were names of social contacts made through her parties, people she'd spoken of with disdain, and the sorts of people she considered worth cultivating, though she might never have come into contact with them. Shacklebolt had become grim and quiet when Draco's list of the last had grown to encompass half the Ministry.

_Poor idiot, _Draco thought, not unkindly, as he watched the Minister nursing a second cup of tea on the other side of the small table in the room they occupied. _He's been Minister for seven years now—almost eight, really—and he's still surprised to find corruption among his inferiors? If anything, having an incorruptible superior makes it worse. They'll either plot to force him out and bring in someone who will let them do just as they like, or they'll squabble for the scraps of power he drops. _

_Try telling that to him, though. Gryffindor for certain._

Draco rubbed a hand across his brow. He'd been up all through the night, except for a few hours of sleep snatched at Harry's bedside, and then he'd spent the entire morning in the Ministry, making these lists and answering questions about what he thought his mother might have wanted. He'd barely had time to think about the particular Gryffindor he loved.

_Bloody inconvenient time to find out I'm in love, but there you are. _When he'd seen Harry staggering with a bright glow of magic around his head, indicating that his mother had used Dark Arts directly on Harry's mind, the only thing he could think of was that all those glittering gold emotions and passions and neuroses he had so admired might be destroyed or broken forever. And the notion made him want to spend the rest of his life in a dark room.

Then he'd realized Harry was lying to protect his mother, of all people, and he'd been torn between shaking Harry furiously and kissing him at least as furiously. He scrubbed at his eyes with crooked fingertips and let out a rusty chuckle. Neither would have been the right choice at the time, so he'd made a little speech instead and then watched Harry fall limp in his arms, his eyes glazed, before he could respond.

Well, Harry would remember, even if he found it better to forget, or hardly dared accept the notion, or tried to argue that Draco had been flooded with worry and couldn't mean what he'd said. Draco would make sure of it. Declaring he was in love had made him feel vulnerable, as if he had a second heart traveling around outside his body that anyone could destroy at any moment. If Harry had felt like that, Draco was ashamed for not having returned the sentiment at once. They would both need all the support they could get.

"Mr. Malfoy."

Draco looked up slowly; he was still more used to hearing his father addressed with that name. Besides, the voice that had spoken was careful, but not with dislike. Shacklebolt stood next to him, his frown heavy and his hands spinning the teacup slowly, as if he were contemplating suddenly turning and dashing it onto the floor.

"Yes, sir?" Draco asked, when it seemed that Shacklebolt would say nothing further without prompting.

"I'm grateful for your help," Shacklebolt began. "The entire Ministry should be." He cleared his throat. "And whilst I understood that your mother had angered you greatly just before you began to compile these lists, it still can't have been an easy thing to do."

Draco concealed his smile under a grave nod. He really should have remembered one of the occasional good things about Gryffindors: their guilt complexes. Shacklebolt felt he owed Draco a debt. Draco was too Slytherin not to take advantage of it.

"If there's anything I can do—" the Minister was saying.

"There is," said Draco. Shacklebolt looked at him askance, and Draco reckoned he'd wanted Draco to wait before he claimed the debt. _Too bad. _"Struggle as hard as you can for Harry. Stay within all the legal limits you want, but don't stint him what he's owed simply because you're worried about what you'll look like to Diggory." Draco narrowed his eyes. "Leave Diggory to me."

Shacklebolt's frown deepened, perhaps because he was remembering that Draco wasn't exactly a political animal, but he said gently, "I would have done that for Harry in any case, Mr. Malfoy. I consider Harry a personal friend, though many times in the last few years he hasn't relied on me as much as I would have liked a friend to do."

"Very well." Draco leaned forwards. "Then grant me five minutes of private conversation with my mother."

Shacklebolt's face stiffened. Somehow, his hands remained easy and relaxed; perhaps he spun the cup a little faster than before. Draco admired the effect. Shacklebolt must have used it to fool some of his political enemies before. "Mrs. Malfoy is in custody," he said. "I couldn't allow you to do anything that harmed her."

"I know that," Draco said. "And I truly would not. I only wish to speak some words to her." _Words that will damage her more than a curse ever could._

The Minister leaned forwards and scanned Draco's face carefully. Draco controlled his irritation—why was his trustworthiness being doubted now, when he'd just been thanked for providing all sorts of truths to the Ministry?—and contented himself with staring back until Shacklebolt coughed and turned away.

"Five minutes," he said, waving a wand. An hourglass appeared in the air in front of him, and sand began to flow between the bulbs. "No more than that."

Draco knew better than to protest that he would lose some of the allotted seconds getting into the cell where his mother was being held. He stood, bowed, and strode out of the nondescript little waiting room. Shacklebolt must have given some sort of signal behind Draco's back; the Aurors standing outside the door of the room across the corridor parted, though reluctantly, and let Draco into Narcissa Malfoy's presence.

She was sitting and looking at the far wall as if there were a window there, even though there wasn't. The Aurors had decided against a cell with an enchanted window because they thought she was too dangerous and might manage to use its magic somehow. Draco approved of this decision.

He shut the door behind him with an audible click. Narcissa didn't bother to look around.

"I suppose you wouldn't be interested in telling me how you entered the Ministry," he said conversationally. "Of course, based on who deserted his post and who was enchanted, they can trace the people who let you through eventually."

Silence. Narcissa might have been a wax statue for all his words affected her.

"And I suppose you won't want to describe the lingering effects of the spell you cast on Harry." Draco nodded to himself. "That's all right. He's in St. Mungo's now, even if he is still in custody and will have to return to a holding cell immediately after he's healed, and they'll eventually cure him. Harry's own reputation will force them to it."

"Which reputation?" Narcissa asked, in that soft voice that had forced so many people down the years to lower their own to hear her. "The one as a dangerous, inhuman magical creature?"

"For some people, that doesn't trump twenty-seven years of considering him a hero." Draco had made a vow to himself that he wouldn't lose his temper if he actually achieved this interview, so he said the words calmly. "But, as I said, I don't think you're interested in telling me those things. So I'm here to tell you something instead."

Narcissa turned to face him at last. Her blue eyes were the color of shadows on snow, the shadows that would lie beautifully across a person whether they were sleeping or freezing to death.

"I'm never going to come back to you," Draco said. "You forfeited my allegiance when you pulled that stunt on Harry. It doesn't matter if Diggory wins the election, if you make it impossible for me to practice potions in Britain, if Harry's arrested and sent to Azkaban. None of that will make me obey you. I'm free, forever, and it's myself and Harry I owe that freedom to. Not your teaching, not your service to a madman, not that stupid Unbreakable Vow you forced Professor Snape to swear that ended up getting so many people killed. My soul will always have escaped from you."

He turned around and left the cell just as Shacklebolt opened the door to let him out. He could feel his mother's eyes on his back.

He hoped the shadows in them were _burning._

But Draco shook his head when he stepped into the corridor, and took a deep breath, and reminded himself of where and who he was. Then he headed for St. Mungo's to sit with Harry in the brief time they were allowed.


	14. Discussion and Dissension

Thank you again for all the reviews!

_Chapter Fourteen—Discussion and Dissension_

Harry woke slowly, but with a smile on his lips even before he opened his eyes. He knew who was there from the soft, steady pattern of breathing beside him. He had lain with Draco in his arms the afternoon before he was arrested and listened to it.

When he opened his eyes, Draco was already leaning forwards to stare at him. Maybe he had noticed a change in Harry's own breathing.

"How are you?" Draco asked.

Harry gazed back at him, fighting the impulse to ask that question for himself. He had been the one wounded by a Dark Arts curse, and it was only sense that Draco would want to know about him first. But Draco's face was as pale as though he'd heard someone insult his potions-making. Besides, he'd unexpectedly confessed his love to someone who fainted before he could reply. Harry settled for reaching out, catching his wrist, and squeezing hard before he answered.

"Better than I was. No headache. I managed to eat earlier." He paused, then added, "Hermione told me that I'll have to return to a holding cell as soon as the Healers are satisfied I'm in reasonable health."

"I almost think I should have killed my mother," Draco said. He shoved his chair closer to the bed and bent over so he could kiss the skin beneath Harry's left ear. Harry shivered and arched his neck to encourage him to go further, but Draco kept his lips in the same place, his body shaking so severely that Harry did his best to curl an arm around him despite the awkward angle he was at.

"Never," Harry whispered. "Words are enough, and knowing that she's been arrested for what she tried to do to me. I think we should worry more about the people who are still free. Will your father do anything drastic because of your mother's arrest, do you think?"

"Not for several days. He'll want to give the impression that he's unruffled, that even this experience simply broke against the shield of his stoicism." Draco exhaled, a warm, damp rush of air that made Harry squirm, unsure whether he felt more aroused or contented. "My parents are idiots." Abruptly he pulled away so he could catch Harry's gaze again. "But we have more important things to talk about."

"We do?" Harry wondered if something had happened since the last time he fell asleep to make the situation worse.

"The words I said to you," Draco murmured, and his hand had changed positions again, now smoothing up Harry's right arm towards his elbow. "I meant them. I'm in love with you, and I have no idea how you had the courage to say those words to me first. Even knowing you love me back makes it hard."

Harry sat up at once, reaching out and embracing Draco. Draco grunted, maybe in surprise, maybe in protest at the idea of Harry moving. Harry didn't know and he didn't care. It wasn't as though he'd broken a leg, and if he had a fainting fit or a sudden surge of emotion, Draco was here to help him through it.

"I think that's my kind of wooden-headed, stubborn courage," he said into Draco's ear and trailed his fingers through Draco's hair, along the back of his neck, and down his spine as far as he could reach. "Your courage is different. If you put yourself down for not speaking the words earlier, I'll punch you _so_ hard."

Draco laughed, his voice shaky, but at least he wasn't stuttering when he spoke again. Harry was half-sorry for that. He would have had no choice but to lay Draco back on the chair and kiss him senseless if he'd stuttered. "I know my courage is different. But I do wish I could have said the words earlier."

"Don't. I wanted the words because you meant them, not because you thought you had to say them."

Draco nodded, his chin bumping and rustling through Harry's hair. Harry closed his eyes and wished he'd heard of a device for pausing time, rather than reversing it, so they might stay like this and forget about the trials and the necessity of coming up with legal defenses against Diggory and Lucius.

The door of the hospital room flew open. Draco stirred uneasily in Harry's embrace, but Harry refused to let him go. There was no way anyone could shame him or make him feel embarrassed for loving Draco. He glared at the intruder.

"Easy, Potter," Millicent said, striding into the room with an amused glance at him. "I have no interest in pasty blond potions-makers, but I _do _need to talk to him." She stepped up to the side of the bed and knocked on the back of Draco's head, as if he hadn't heard her voice and wouldn't know who it was. Draco turned over and around to face her, slinging one leg through the arms of the chair, but didn't remove himself from Harry's hug. Harry hid his grin in Draco's shoulder.

"We've tried several spells against Lucius, and he's protected from them all," said Millicent crisply. "I need to know whether those defenses are only on the Manor or cast on his body as well."

"What are you doing to my father?" Draco demanded, but with a curl of his lip that told Harry how delighted he was.

"Never you mind. It will be better as a surprise." Millicent folded her arms. "I'm waiting for an answer."

"On both the Manor and him," Draco said. "He's also immune to most of the common poisons."

"Antivenins?"

"No, the old-fashioned way. Small doses of the poison every morning before breakfast."

"I _do_ hate pure-bloods sometimes," Millicent told the hospital bed. "Does he use any Transfigurations? That cane of his. Is it only a cane, or will it attack me if I come close enough?"

Draco blinked. "Father was excellent at Charms and Potions, not so good at Transfiguration," he said after a moment. "But he's protected against the common ones, as well—against your turning the ground to ice beneath him, for example. I think those enchantments are on his robes, but they're on every set of robes he owns. There's nothing special about the cane."

Millicent was smiling. Harry was very glad he hadn't given her cause to smile like that at him. "I have no desire to get Lucius Malfoy naked," she said. "But this tells me the second plan we thought of should work after all. It'll simply need preparation to get through those ranks of defensive enchantments." She nodded once to Harry, then turned and walked stiff-backed out of the room.

Draco snorted and laid his head back against Harry's shoulder again. "I hope they'll let me be there when they work the spell, to see Lucius's face."

"And this doesn't bother you?" Harry had to ask, because Hermione and her detached analysis of the situation were one thing, but Draco and his history with his parents was something else again. Harry _thought _he understood Draco's relationship with them now, but one mind-reading potion didn't equate to living Draco's life. "That Hermione and Millicent might destroy your father, and that your mother's been arrested?"

"Harry." Draco reached up and found his wrist; Harry winced as he squeezed it. "I gave information against my mother—everything I could remember, including any Dark Arts spell she might have used and social contacts other than Diggory who could have managed to get her into the Ministry." He turned, raised his hand, and stared up at Harry. His eyes had gone very dark. "You'll give information against my mother, so Shacklebolt can prosecute her on every possible charge. I told her that she'd never win me or my affection back after attacking you. I'll smile and nod if she's sentenced to Azkaban for this." He took a deep breath, though he hadn't spoken the words particularly fast. "_I love you. _Would you have hesitated to make sure the person who hurt me went to Azkaban, if I had been the one attacked?"

Harry leaned over and kissed the back of Draco's head in response. Draco sighed and shivered once, then sat up and turned around, pulling away completely except for the hold on Harry's wrist.

"Now," he said. "We've got to discuss your publicity campaign, the things you'll say to the Minister about my mother and her attack, your knowledge of your paternal bloodline, and how to keep your face straight in a courtroom."

* * *

Draco arranged his features in a polite smile as the first patron stepped through the door. She was a small witch trying not to look too obvious as she gaped at the enormous ceilings of the house Millicent had chosen for them, and failing. Luckily, she focused on Draco soon enough where he stood by a desk he'd Transfigured from a feather, near the base of the staircase to the upper floors, and walked rapidly towards him. Draco relaxed. He had nearly been afraid that she was only someone come to gape at the new apothecary belonging to Draco Malfoy, and not a customer intent on Desire at all.

"The rumors said—" the witch began, and paused. This close, Draco could see a large string of sapphires gathered about her neck. She touched them for a moment as if they gave her confidence, then continued, "That is, I've heard some people say you're selling Desire potion out of this shop."

Someone else had stepped through the doors and was looking around uncertainly. Draco gave him an encouraging smile, then faced the witch again. "Yes, we are," he said. "There are some restrictions, of course."

"Restrictions?" The witch stepped away from the desk as if she expected to have a snake set on her for daring to request Desire.

"Simply to ensure we're complying with the laws the Ministry decided on," Draco said, and his voice must have been even more soothing than he'd charmed it to be, because the witch's hand fell away from her sapphires. "We're required to warn you about certain of Desire's effects, for instance, and only sell you a certain amount at a time, and—"

"Can you take that whole spiel as given, then?" the witch asked, and reached into a pouch hanging from her belt. From the sound of the clinks inside, it was heavy with Galleons. "I need some Desire soon."

"I completely understand the feeling," Draco reassured her kindly, and he did. Though he had taken Desire only once and had quickly decided not to take it again, he had still felt an odd yearning for the potion. It had made him react with mental clarity that could have helped in other situations—but it had also affected the state of mind he needed for brewing potions, and that could not be borne. "If you'll only listen a moment."

The witch assumed the air of a Muggle martyr tormented on the cross whilst Draco launched into the speech that included every single warning and caution the Ministry had imposed on them, such as the fact that Desire might affect the witch's control of her magic. Draco looked at her face carefully during that part, but her expression never changed. The moment she saw the vial of blue-green liquid, her eyes had moistened and softened and her lips parted slightly, and she maintained that look until Draco finished speaking and she handed him the necessary Galleons. Then she slipped the vial hastily up her sleeve and hurried away from the shop as if afraid someone might try to steal it from her.

The wizard was next, and then a pair of young witches who giggled and peeked over their shoulders so much Draco was sure they were escapees from parental supervision, and then a man with hard eyes who stared steadily at Draco as he paid for the potion. Draco shrugged at him and managed to make eye contact casually five times. If the man was a Ministry agent, as Draco suspected, he would find everything perfectly open and candid at Malfoy's Magical Mixtures.

(The name had been Harry's suggestion. He had claimed it would make their selling of Desire look more innocent in the eyes of the Ministry. Draco had told him he was confusing innocence with girlishness, but considering how many reluctant agreements he'd managed to extract from Harry yesterday, he supposed he owed him one small victory).

"I've heard about your recent misfortunes," said the hard-eyed wizard as he accepted the vial of Desire potion from Draco.

"So many of them, yes," said Draco, and gave the man the companionable grimace he'd practiced in front of the mirror. "Ah, well. Any innovator in society must expect a few."

"I was referring to the most recent misfortune, actually," said the wizard, and unfolded the _Daily Prophet _from his robes. Draco had made a point of looking at it before he came into the shop, so he could peer critically at the photo of Harry—several years old now—ducking into one of the shops on Diagon Alley, beneath a headline that screamed incoherently about magical creature blood.

"Yes, not his best angle," Draco agreed, and picked up another two vials of the potion as he saw the desperate-looking man coming up behind the wizard. "However, Harry's never cared as much about how he _looks _to the public as what the papers are _saying _about him."

The wizard stared at him. "Your partner's been arrested," he said, "and that's all you have to say?"

"Yes, it is." Draco raised an eyebrow at him and nodded over his shoulder. "Now, if you don't mind, I do run a busy shop here, and I'm afraid you're taking up space and time that I could use serving others."

The man stepped away, eyes not so much hard as confused now. They returned continually to Draco as he walked to the front of the shop, and he paused for a long scan before he went out the door.

Draco kept the smile on his face, nodding patiently as the newest patron tried to explain to him, in stumbling words, why exactly he needed Desire for his self-confidence problem. He felt impatience clawing at him behind the mask, but he managed to suppress it quickly. He'd done that often enough with Cordelia Nott and other people much more annoying than this young man who was about to pay him forty Galleons.

It had been Harry's suggestion that he go alone to the shop today, to show that neither Harry's arrest nor Narcissa's could stop him, and that the sale of Desire would proceed whatever Diggory or his father might try. Draco had been reluctant to reveal the house where they'd brewed Desire, but Harry said that was _also_ a good thing; it made them seem settled, determined to get back into business, in a way that making the location vague and selling Desire by owl only wouldn't. If Diggory tried another strike at the shop, it would be a matter of public interest; Draco's customers could tell others that they'd been in that very building, and describe it, making any potential loss or damage more real.

There was something to be said for Gryffindor politics, Draco had to admit, but they were nerve-racking—hence why he'd practiced grimaces and smiles last night, and made sure to steal every march on his enemies he could, by asking Granger and Millicent as well as Harry what they thought was likely to happen.

He lifted out another two vials of Desire for the latest customer and launched into his explanation of the potion's effects again, trying not to remember that Harry was probably sitting in a holding cell at the moment, being questioned by Aurors.

* * *

"But you must be aware of _something._"

Harry smiled at Willowberry. In a way, he was coming to admire the man. Willowberry had saved his life by insisting on proper procedure and checking the guards on Harry's cell at the right moment, and he'd accepted Harry's words on Narcissa with nothing more than a few nods. On the other hand, he was sticking as closely to the interrogation, chasing down Harry's least uncertainty or evasion, challenging him with lying whenever Harry paused to clear his throat or think, trying to trick him off-balance in the hopes of learning an unexpected honest answer.

Willowberry's loyalty was to the Ministry and its rules first, not to any one particular person. At least Harry could rest assured that this was one Auror Diggory and the Malfoys would never manage to corrupt.

"I'm really not," said Harry. "I grew up with my aunt and uncle. My aunt is my mother's sister, her only living relative. She was _deeply _Muggle. I know she feared and envied my mother's talents, and even begged to attend Hogwarts. If she could work any kind of magic, she would have, at some point during her life. She married the most normal Muggle man she could find, and my cousin has no talent, either. If you're looking for magical creature blood, I'm afraid you'll need to look elsewhere than my mother's family."

Willowberry pursed his lips and blinked unhappily down at his notes, but Harry knew he was on the verge of giving up. The Ministry contained no information that could contradict Harry's testimony; Muggleborns were registered as wizards or witches when they claimed their wands and their families were sworn to secrecy, but their heritage wasn't traced in the way the pure-blood families traced theirs. If Willowberry wanted to insist that Harry had inherited some trace of Dementor or worse from his mother, he would have to go to the Muggle world and do the research himself.

With a deep sigh, Willowberry drew a long, straight line across the parchment. Then he leaned forwards and peered into Harry's eyes. "What do you know about your father's family?" he demanded.

"May I have a drink, please?" Harry asked politely.

Never taking his stare away, Willowberry picked up the glass of water from the table between them and held it to Harry's lips. Harry leaned forwards and sipped it. Since his hands were bound behind his back, the wrists and the forearms looped together with some kind of strong, light loops of metal, he had no other choice.

He had thought of telling Willowberry and the other nervous Aurors who bound him that wandless magic didn't need hands to work any more than it needed a wand, but had decided he'd terrified them enough for one morning. There were two other Aurors in the room, but they stayed near the door and flinched every time Harry moved, even if he was only settling back in the chair.

Draco would no doubt scream at Harry if he knew about the bonds. Harry would tell him later. From the moment the Aurors had practically tiptoed into St. Mungo's to escort him back to the Ministry, he had seen how seriously they took the charge of his being able to devour magic. Harry's focus needed to be his freedom, since that was what he required to rejoin Draco. He wouldn't resist the Aurors for the sake of pride alone.

_I don't think even Draco would, once he got past the initial outrage, and he was all pride at one time._

"Now," said Willowberry, and put the glass back on the table with a small clink. "Your father's family?"

"I don't know much about them," Harry admitted. Willowberry's eyes lit up like a ferret's, and he scribbled on the parchment. "My father was an only child. His parents were quite elderly when they had him, which might have been the reason they petted and spoiled him so much. I know he was quite the talented wizard at Transfiguration; he became an Animagus before he was of legal age." Harry saw no reason not to reveal the secret, now that the Marauders were all dead. He was sure James would have preferred that the Ministry know everything reasonable than that they accuse Harry of keeping secrets and hold him longer.

_Would he have approved of my dating Draco?_

Harry pushed the thought impatiently away. The reason he had found it so hard to understand Draco's permanent estrangement from his parents was that he had none. It was useless to worry about their approval on this or that question when he would never know the answer, and when he needed all his concentration for the challenge in front of him.

Willowberry almost lunged at him, though he managed to stop himself with a hand laid flat in the middle of the table. "What kind of Animagus?"

"A stag," Harry said, mildly interested in why Willowberry would need that question, but knowing he wouldn't be told if he asked.

"Not even a predator." Willowberry leaned back in his chair, shaking his head. "And you never met any aunts, uncles, cousins, or great-grandparents?"

"Given the age of my grandparents," Harry said, "I'm pretty sure _their _parents were dead by the time I was born. As for any other siblings, no, nothing. I think my father might have been the only child of an only child, but I don't know for certain."

"Magical creature blood has been known to skip one or two generations," Willowberry said, as if to himself. "Perhaps your grandfather was simply clever at hiding it, and of course your father died so young that it might have had no time to manifest."

"Please do investigate and let me know if that's true," said Harry, leaning forwards. "I'd love to know more about my father's family, since I seem to be the only one of them left, and I don't even know what I'm the heir to."

Willowberry frowned at him. Harry just looked back, radiating earnestness. Draco had advised him to cooperate with the Aurors as much as possible, not only because it would give him his freedom sooner but because it would let him live up to his original reputation of brave and honest Gryffindor. The more people who saw him acting like that, the less powerful the rumors of him as some dark and deadly monster would be.

"We will investigate, you may be assured of that," said Willowberry at last, and then walked behind Harry to tap on the bonds with his wand. The other Aurors tensed, but Willowberry lifted Harry to his feet with an arm beneath his as if he did this every day. "Now—"

Someone knocked on the door of the interrogation room. Willowberry looked up in annoyance, and Harry ducked his head to smother a grin. The taller Auror moved, on Willowberry's nod, to open it.

"You can't really keep me from the most influential story of the decade, you know," said a familiar voice the instant it opened. "The people have a right to know the truth." Rita Skeeter stepped into the room, a parchment floating beside her with a Quick-Quotes Quill already dashing away. "Tell me, Mr. Potter, how does it feel to be _wrongfully _imprisoned for an act that was not a crime?"


	15. Enemies and Friends Close In

Thank you again for all the reviews!

_Chapter Fifteen—Enemies and Friends Close In_

"Madam," said Willowberry, his hands tightening on Harry's arms. He was trying and failing to sound impressive. Harry was glad that he faced Skeeter, so he couldn't see Willowberry's face, or he probably would have burst out laughing. "You are interfering with a planned Ministry interrogation—"

"Interrogation?" Skeeter pressed further into the room, her eyes so wide they appeared about to break through the lenses of her glasses. "_Surely _not, not when Mr. Potter has not done anything wrong? Is it a crime to defend the man he loves, to wield the magic he possesses to stop a wielder of Dark magic? If it was, then surely the Ministry should have arrested him after he killed Voldemort!" Harry blinked, surprised she'd spoken the name. Skeeter abruptly whirled around and thrust her parchment and quill almost beneath Harry's nose. "And what do you say, Mr. Potter, as the wrongfully accused?" she asked. "Has the Ministry treated you well? Why were you arrested so shamefully? Is it true that you've been kept in a cell without food or water until you gave them the answers they _wanted_, rather than the truth?" She tossed Willowberry a haughty glance, as if she were the champion of truth fighting the champion of lies.

Again Harry had to swallow his laughter before he could answer. Hermione and Millicent had contacted Skeeter, as Draco had told him they would, and arranged for her to show up at the Ministry in exchange for an exclusive interview Harry would grant her after he was free. Knowing Skeeter, the bargain probably hadn't been a hardship for her; she enjoyed the opportunity to embarrass people even if they weren't Harry. But he didn't want her to go too far and make the Ministry look cruel or incompetent. That would only render Kingsley's position all the more delicate.

"The Ministry has treated me well," he said, and when Skeeter gave him a patiently disbelieving glance, he gestured back at the glass of water on the table. "I did have something to drink whilst I was answering questions, and I received a sip of it whenever I asked."

"A sip, you said." Skeeter jerked her body forwards with a single abrupt motion that made Harry see why her Animagus form was a beetle. "Does that mean you received only as much water as _they _deemed you should receive, not as much as you wanted?"

"Madam—" Willowberry tried to intervene again, but he was no match for Rita Skeeter in full flood. Now she had thrown her hand over her glasses and stretched out her other arm, as if to appeal to an invisible audience.

"To think I should have lived to see these days," she whispered, "when the Ministry tortures innocents."

"It hasn't been torture," Harry said firmly. The Quick-Quotes Quill would probably record that as different words, but at least Willowberry and the other Aurors would know the truth of what he had said, and Willowberry was scrupulously fair enough to report it so to Kingsley. "I do think I was wrongfully accused, yes. To my knowledge, I have no magical creature blood, and the ability that devours magic only manifests at certain times and places."

"What are those certain times and places, Mr. Potter?" Skeeter dropped her arm from her eyes and was abruptly professional once again. "Should we all beware the house that Daphne Greengrass recently owned, where she took Mr. Malfoy prisoner against his will?"

_Either she's been doing her own investigating, or Hermione was more open with her information than I thought she would be. _For the moment, Harry wasn't much disposed to worry which it was. He would curb Skeeter's tendencies later, if he had to, by threatening to withhold the interview. "The times and places have more to do with someone threatening the people I love," he said. "I was very angry when Ms. Greengrass kidnapped Draco and tortured him." Part of his and Draco's discussion yesterday had concerned how much of Draco's memories they would reveal. Draco had reluctantly granted Harry permission to say he'd been tortured, but told him to leave out the details for now. Harry thought the whole truth would have to come out before the end to defeat the Malfoys' accusations; still, it was a simple enough requirement to fulfill. "That was the reason I went into her house and ate her magic. She wouldn't stop hurting Draco, even when I gave her a chance to before I struck. I'm afraid I don't behave rationally when someone is torturing the people I love."

Skeeter had a camera hanging around her neck; with a reporter's fine instinct, she lifted it and snapped the picture just as Harry smiled. Harry hoped that smile would give Diggory nightmares.

"Then the entire crime could be read as defense of an innocent human being," Skeeter noted as she dropped the camera back into place and gestured the parchment and the Quick-Quotes Quill forwards again. "Why would the Ministry arrest you for something that simple and easy to understand?"

"The Ministry doesn't understand the circumstances fully as yet," Harry said. _Or pretends not to, _he thought, but that wouldn't win him any credit with Willowberry and his friends. "My hope is that when they do, they will dismiss these charges as the nonsense they are."

"If they don't, then there is something wrong with the process of justice in Britain," Skeeter said firmly. She paused, then added, as if it had only just occurred to her, "Or perhaps an enemy higher in the Ministry's hierarchy." She leaned towards Harry and lowered her voice to a breathless whisper. "What do you think of this theory, Mr. Potter?"

"I wouldn't say it was an enemy higher up the Ministry's hierarchy," Harry said in a judicious tone, as if he had considered the answer for a long time. "But it could be someone _associated _with the Ministry. Someone who wants power in it, and doesn't yet have enough to satisfy him. Someone went to a great deal of trouble to ensure that Mrs. Malfoy could reach and attack me in my holding cell, including getting the Aurors on guard out of the way."

"That is quite enough," said Willowberry. He didn't seem to have known before what he should do about a conversation that might be damaging to the Ministry but was hardly illegal, but Harry had crossed a barrier by referring to the Ministry directly. He rattled the bonds on Harry's wrists. "Information about others' crimes is not his to give out."

"Oh, but everyone already knows that Mrs. Malfoy attacked him," said Skeeter happily. Harry ducked his head to hide another smile. That probably wasn't true yet, but it would be true by the time the _Daily Prophet _next went to press. "And why should that arrest and attack be kept secret, when Mr. Potter's attack on Daphne Greengrass has not been?"

"Matters of public interest—" said Willowberry, and then stopped. Harry felt a moment's pity for the man. Give him a matter of law and rules, and there was probably no one better for running the straight route ahead. Give him a complicated situation like this one, where even he might not approve of the measures that had been taken against Harry and _knew _that Mrs. Malfoy had been guilty of Dark magic, and he was unsure of his next move.

"They are all matters of public interest, yes, and I have just as much stake as you do in showing the Ministry in a good light," Skeeter said soothingly. Harry hid a chuckle. She _was _good at her job. He wondered if she had got better since he was a student, or if she simply found it easier to hunt down and acquire information in the wider wizarding world, outside the protected atmosphere of Hogwarts. "I know you're doing your job, Auror Willowberry. I know you're arresting those you feel deserve it and warning the public about dangerous criminals. But shouldn't that include _all_ the dangerous criminals, not only the ones who once saved the wizarding world?"

Willowberry rattled Harry's bonds again. "When you have someone who devours magic, madam, as opposed to someone who merely uses Dark magic—"

"In the middle of the Ministry?" Skeeter demanded. "After getting past multiple guards?" She shook her head chidingly at Willowberry, and her quill scribbled furiously. "And I daresay that you haven't yet found any evidence of magical creature blood in Mr. Potter's family, which means that he can't be tried as a magical creature would."

"Where are you getting your information?" Willowberry said, sounding now as he had when he questioned Harry.

"I protect my sources." Skeeter snapped her chin at him and then looked back at Harry, her eyes so sympathetic Harry might have been fooled if he were foreign to Britain and had never read a word she'd written. "I am sorry for the inconvenience of this interview, Mr. Potter," she said. "I hope that you will soon convince the Wizengamot they've made a mistake in arresting you at all, let alone trying you under this ridiculous law."

"My thanks, Madam Skeeter," Harry said, pompously formal. The Quick-Quotes Quill moved more slowly, and he thought it was probably recording his exact words; Skeeter's audience would eat something like this up. "But I would not call the charges ridiculous. Obviously, _someone _takes them very seriously. I would say he's right to."

"Or she," said Skeeter, her eyes gleaming.

"Of course, she." Harry grinned at her. "I would never mean to imply that women are less dangerous."

Skeeter nodded and then minced out of the room. Willowberry stood staring after her, until one of the other Aurors coughed. Then he shook Harry's bonds again, as if that could somehow prevent the interview from ever having taken place.

"You should be more careful of your tongue, Potter," he muttered as he led Harry along the corridor back to a holding cell.

"What?" Harry looked back over his shoulder. "And give less than honest and complete answers?"

Willowberry's face folded into a confused scowl again.

* * *

Draco had expected this the moment he saw several wizards entering the shop and staring straight at him without buying anything—and without examining the impressive height of the ceiling, either. He hadn't let it get to him. He'd sold Desire potion to most of his customers and ingredients or completed common potions to the few who wanted something else. He'd made polite chatter with those who demanded to know more about the regulations that the Potions Committee at the Ministry had laid on him. He'd deflected questions about Harry with a smile and riddle-like answers that had puzzled those who expected him to stammer in embarrassment.

Now evening was coming on, and Draco was preparing to make the journey back from the shop to Harry's flat, the same way he'd done for the last few days. He was certain the wizards observing him had also observed his routine. They wouldn't intrude unless it became obvious that he was taking longer than usual. They'd certainly prefer to confront him in the open air than in the middle of such formidable defenses.

Draco didn't intend to let the choice of ground matter.

He pocketed a few vials that would look ordinary to anyone peering in through the windows or using an Eye-Spy Spell. It would take a very good eye indeed to notice that the vials curved slightly, with the shape of bulbs at the bottom, and no one but a professional apothecary would have known what that meant. Draco doubted there was one such among his enemies. Cordelia Nott and Diggory had paid a few of them off, nearer the beginning of the struggle, so they would refuse to carry Desire potion, but the business had not yet advanced to the point where Draco required others to distribute it for him, so those precautions had not troubled him.

He glanced back once at the stock of Desire potion, safe in a locked cabinet that would open only to the willing touch of his hand, and then at the gleam of the spell Granger had come by yesterday to lay.

He smiled slightly, and stepped out of the shop, locking the door behind him, which made a complex of wards spring up around the windows. Draco listened intently, and heard the first shuffling footstep. He pretended to be surprised, turning around and blinking at the silent, unfamiliar wizards who had surrounded him.

"Was there something you wanted?" he asked, and kept his voice exquisitely polite, the way his father had taught him when he faced Muggleborns who insisted on brushing up against him in Diagon Alley. "I'm afraid the shop is closed for today, and orders for Desire potion are cresting fast enough that it will take me a few days to fill them in any case. My time is largely occupied in brewing the Desire potion now, so if you wish for potions other than that one, you would be best served by another apothecary."

"I believe that you expected us," said one of the wizards, and then rose and strode through his companions to stand facing Draco. Draco was genuinely impressed, though he did his best not to show it, as a matter of pride. He hadn't recognized Charlemagne Diggory when he hunched and put the hood of his cloak over his face.

"Maybe I did." Draco leaned back against the door of the shop and smiled at Diggory. "Nonetheless, what I said remains true. It would be best if you went to another apothecary."

Diggory smiled back. He had the gift of looking truly amused even when he wasn't. That would serve him well in politics, if he ever managed to advance further in them. Draco meant to see that he didn't. "You know what we've come for, Draco."

"I'd prefer to be called Malfoy." Draco paused thoughtfully. "No, wait, never mind. That would lead to the chance you'd confuse me with my father, and then you might think your boots want polishing."

Diggory took a single step forwards. Maybe he was angry; Draco didn't think he could tell the difference between a gesture of genuine emotion on Diggory's part and one that was meant to get him into a better position for attack. "There has been a great deal of hysteria and accusations flying where I never meant there to be anything but clear air," Diggory said, his voice deep and incantatory. Draco bit back the impulse to tell him he wasn't addressing a crowd of thousands now. He would not let himself seem unnerved enough to interrupt his enemy. "It's true that I was rather worried about the Desire potion at first, and it did seem too bad that Harry Potter should oppose my run for Minister. But circumstances have changed. You would be wise to change with them."

_He's not using either name this time, _Draco thought in some amusement. Probably that was wisdom on Diggory's part, but it was still funny. "Until I receive more details," he said, "I can't decide what I want to do."

"I should think that your business partner in a holding cell is enough of a change," said Diggory, sounding gently dismayed, as if he hadn't thought even _Draco _callous enough to ignore something like that.

"Well, it's true he's in a holding cell," said Draco, "but that's been true for several days now. Unless something truly extraordinary has happened, that hasn't lessened his opposition to you. Why would you think it lessens mine?"

Diggory smiled again. He lowered his head slightly, as though to protect his throat. Draco moved his hands along his side in an absent brushing gesture. The wizards behind Diggory tensed, but then fell still and watchful again when they saw no wand appear in Draco's fingers.

_Idiot. There are other kinds of weapons. _They should have remembered that, given what Draco's business was. The gesture had brought his hands closer to the robe pockets that held the vials of potion.

"It might be—a warning of things to come," said Diggory. "Neither of you is an expert in politics. You had the chance to pursue it, growing up in the family you came from and which you are so anxious I should not confuse you with, and refused it. Potter has always had good luck and a good name, but that is different from having good instincts. You're out of your depth in this fight, and truly, I have no wish to harm you. The worst things that have happened to you in the last few months were not my doing."

_Daphne Greengrass. The collapse of your shop. _Draco knew that to be true, though Theodore Nott, who had cast the spells that worked together with Daphne's weakening of his wards to bring down his first shop, had been Cordelia Nott's brother; he had acted on his own, impulsively.

He also understood the threat Diggory's gentle words concealed. _I can do worse to you than they managed, and using weapons that neither you nor Potter know how to wield._

And of course it would be stupid of him and Harry to fight if that were the case, but on the other hand, it was not _exactly _the case. They didn't have to fight using the weapons of politics. They could shift the ground. Diggory didn't seem to have taken account of that, but he wasn't stupid; he would have had to. He must have decided the chance that they could do such a thing was not big enough to require guarding against it.

_You should have, _Draco thought, holding his face calm and peaceful as he stared at Diggory. _You should have, you arrogant prick._

"Laws don't frighten me," Draco said. "Since the war, I've always labored to stay on the right side of them. I've seen what happens to those who don't."

"The law can be a terrible enemy," said Diggory, and his voice altered, became full of deep and expressive pain. "But I don't desire to have it be one. Draco, why _won't _you work for me? The majority of the Potions advisers in the Ministry are old, and haven't achieved their positions by competence but by a relationship with one of the pure-blood families. I'd like to replace them. I've heard astonishing things about you. No one else could duplicate the Desire potion. What has you set against accepting a position like this? I'm sure you could easily do as much research and brew as interesting a variety of potions on a Ministry salary as you could running your own business."

"I don't want to be yours."

Diggory frowned and peered at him as if he had trouble seeing Draco in the late summer twilight descending around them. "I beg your pardon?"

"If I accepted a position from your hands, I would owe something to you," said Draco, "the way my parents do. I refused to obey them or become theirs despite the tie of blood. What makes you think I'll be yours?"

"You have an archaic notion of debts and ownership." Diggory raised an eyebrow as if he were trying and failing to comprehend Draco's argument. "Simply because you agreed to help me in the reformation of the Ministry does not mean you would be my 'creature,' as I believe you'd call it."

"The point isn't the reformation of the Ministry." Draco modulated his voice carefully, so it could carry overtones of scorn without quite breaking into open contempt. This was yet another place where Slytherin discipline was coming in handy. "I don't think it ever was. I think that right now you're concerned about neutralizing your enemies, for the sake of protecting an office you don't have yet and may never have."

"The latest articles argue otherwise."

"The _Daily Prophet _lies if it wants to," said Draco. "It's certainly lied in the past about Harry."

"Nevertheless," said Diggory, showing a trace of impatience for the first time, "it does reflect what the average wizard thinks. And the average wizard knows and recognizes my name and face. I think it quite likely that I'll win the election against Minister Shacklebolt. He's made himself too distant from the people. He won't remedy that in time."

Draco almost smiled. So far Diggory had nearly offered him a bribe, and now uttered words that could be seen as threatening the Minister. That was very good, but Draco still hoped to provoke him to more open action. He might have brought the dark-cloaked wizards around him simply for protection; if not, then Draco wanted them to attack.

_Granger does good work._

"Maybe you're right," Draco said. "But I'd still rather remain my own person, and do my own work, and live under the Ministry we have right now." He tucked his chin into his shoulder, smiled, and started to walk away from Diggory, towards the Apparition point. The wizards standing in a ring around him tightened that ring before Diggory could wave to them to stand back. Draco paused, his tongue tickling the top of his mouth, delight making his shoulders tense the way they had when Harry had first kissed him.

"What have they given you that's so wonderful?" Diggory's voice was stripped; he spoke openly for perhaps the first time since Draco had met him, and the emotions in his tone were not attractive. Desperation was there, and worse things, pounded flat and dark. Draco thought he was now talking to the man who had managed to escape being fascinated by Cordelia Nott, and then had enlisted her as an ally.

"It's more a matter of what they haven't given me." Draco tipped his shoulder slightly, his chin still on it, so he could look back at Diggory with a minimum of effort.

"I told you, a Ministry position—"

"Cause to hate them," Draco said. "You tried to hurt Harry." For just a moment, he dropped the guard over his eyes and let Diggory see the same passionate hatred that Narcissa had had to confront. He had pushed it cold for her; for Diggory it could burn. "I won't forgive you for that. _Never._" He hissed the last word, and made the smallest step back towards Diggory.

And that pushed Diggory into his first open mistake.

He made a wide, sweeping gesture with one hand, and the wizards in the ring aimed their wands at Draco and chanted a curse in perfect unison. They must have trained together, and if Draco had been someone ordinary—almost any of the people who might think they had a chance at taking Diggory's life—they could have killed him.

Draco wasn't someone ordinary.

He crushed the vials in his robe pockets, the ones with the curved bottoms. They were made of more fragile glass and broke more easily than the ordinary ones. They were designed to; apothecaries who needed protection but couldn't know they would have time to drink potions had first dreamed up these vials, to shatter at a moment's notice.

The potions in them dripped out, splotches of white and russet liquid clinging to Draco's robes. Draco closed his eyes and forced himself to stand still as the rays of the curse came at him. The potions' defense wouldn't have a chance to work if he moved immediately.

A slick, glimmering white skin grew up around him, covering him impossibly fast from waist to feet. The second, russet skin sprang up and encased him from waist to head. There were small holes in the shield to admit air, but spells would have a hard time finding them.

The magic the wizards were casting bounced from the shields, and they had to scramble out of the way as it came back at them. Draco stared calmly at Diggory, and then said, "And now you've tried to hurt me."

Diggory turned and walked away without hurrying. He knew he couldn't Apparate this close to the shop, so he wouldn't try. His wizards managed to pick themselves up and scramble after him; more than one cast a hateful glance back at Draco as he went. Draco smiled at them, protected in an invulnerable skin that needed a few more minutes to harden. Then he could wear it home if he so desired.

He cast one more fond look back at the shop. If Granger had been there, he would have smiled at her the same way.

Her long period of study in Daphne's house had not gone unrewarded. She had managed to duplicate the spell that would record certain specific incidents like a Pensieve and then send the images to someone else. The signal for this particular spell's activation was Draco's closing of the shop door.

At the moment, the recording of the entire fight, and the conversation before it, would be sitting neatly in a Pensieve on the desk in Granger's own flat.


	16. Slippery Slope

Thank you again for all the reviews!

_Chapter Sixteen—Slippery Slope_

"What shall we do?" The way that Millicent gazed at the Pensieve holding the recorded memories of his confrontation with Diggory made Draco shudder and glance away. He was more than happy to think about Millicent as a business partner, an ally, and even a friend. Thinking about her with lust in his eyes was more than he was prepared to deal with.

"Send the memories directly to the Minister, of course," said Draco. He'd been sprawled on the couch in Granger's flat, daydreaming about the point at which they would have collected enough evidence to demand a reevaluation of Harry's case, but he sat up now. "What else would we do with them?"

Granger and Millicent exchanged glances. Draco narrowed his eyes. He was beginning to think it wasn't a good idea to have left them alone so much of the time, even if he did have to work whilst they planned revenge on Lucius.

"Well—" said Granger.

"There are advantages to having someone politically powerful under your sway," Millicent said, and her eyes had softened. Her voice dripped down like honey. Draco shuddered and wrapped his arms around his chest in unconscious protection.

"That's true," he said, "but remember that Harry is still under arrest, and we've only won as many concessions as we have through unremitting honesty. If I had tried to hold back information about my mother's activities so that I might blackmail her, it would have turned out badly. I think it's advisable to send the memories to Shacklebolt now."

"Do we know he would do anything, even then?" Granger rose moodily to her feet and paced back and forth, though that brought her into contact with the walls almost immediately. They were in the middle of the main room of her flat, and with the desk, the couch, and three chairs in the way, there wasn't much floor space left. She whirled around at the far wall and stared at Draco. "He seems rather intent on maintaining his political dominance at the cost of _everything _else. Do we know he would use the memories to help Harry instead of trying to blackmail Diggory himself?"

Draco spent a brief moment staring at the wall, unable to comprehend how he had come to be arguing the Gryffindor side of fair play and honesty against Granger, who was advocating deliberately Slytherin tactics. It was undoubtedly Millicent's bad influence, he reflected. After today he would endeavor to see that she didn't have as much time alone with Granger.

"He doesn't have these memories yet," Draco reminded her. "And he's caught up in making sure he doesn't look weak in rather stupid ways, yes. There are wizarding voters who attach more value to pragmatism and anticipation of attack than the stoicism Shacklebolt thinks will win them over, and it would be nice if it didn't appear that he was _ignoring _the threat. But the memories could change that."

"Do we know they will?" Millicent asked, leaning forwards on her chair as if she were joining a debate in the Slytherin common room.

"Do we know the sun will rise tomorrow?" Draco rolled his eyes. "The best course is to turn over the memories to the Minister, and _now_. If we keep and use them ourselves, we'll seem to be engaging in the same games that Diggory and Shacklebolt are playing. The last thing we need is Shacklebolt coming to see us as rivals."

Millicent cast the Pensieve a reluctant glance and heaved a tiny sigh. Draco suspected her resistance would have been much stronger if the memories had contained any direct proof that Diggory was working with his father. "And especially when we don't have a political candidate of our own to back, only one to destroy," she murmured. "Yes, I agree. Turning them over is best."

Granger made a strangled sound in the back of her throat. Millicent glanced at her and shook her head. Granger opened her mouth; Millicent raised an eyebrow. Granger's shoulders slumped, and she covered her face with her hands before giving a sigh identical to Millicent's.

Draco shivered in distaste. He didn't like the feeling that there was a whole silent conversation he'd missed.

"Then let's do it before someone else can intrude," Granger muttered, and stepped forwards to seize the Pensieve.

Draco turned as a shadow swept across his shoulder; his wand was already drawn. He relaxed only slightly as he saw an owl hovering outside the window of Granger's flat. An unknown owl could still be trouble until scanning revealed where the letter had come from.

Granger was the one to let the bird in, but it ignored her and soared across the room to land on Draco's shoulder. Draco removed the letter without haste. He had recognized the writing on the outside of the envelope, though it spelled only a single word, his own name. He had once seen it every day.

The letter was unsigned. Of course he would count on Draco recognizing his hand, and he would want to make sure no truly incriminating evidence existed in the event that someone else intercepted the owl.

_Certain threats have been issued. Here is another. Unless you contact me at once and make efforts to free a certain prisoner, that person whom you love most will learn he is as mortal as anyone else._

Draco felt his face freezing as he read. He looked up when Granger shook him by the shoulder, only mildly surprised that she should have dared to interrupt his contemplation. He supposed he had looked bad enough to deserve it.

"Who is it from?" she asked.

"My father," Draco said softly. "He wants me to work to free my mother, or he'll hurt Harry." He turned the letter over in his hand, idly, and almost smiled when he saw the watermark on the lower right-hand corner in the back. Lucius had always favored the same sort of parchment.

"What are you going to do?" Millicent asked, her voice like the sound of a wolf quarreling over a winter kill.

"Do?" Draco raised his eyebrow at her. "You and Granger will handle him." He started to drop the letter to the floor, then changed his mind and tucked it into a pocket. "I am more interested in Harry's case and finding out how my mother communicates with him." He nodded to the Pensieve. "And now, I think, we have a gift for the Minister."

* * *

"Potter. Wake up. I want to talk to you."

Harry made a great show of coming slowly awake, yawning and rubbing at his eyes; they had left his hands unbound when they deposited him back in the holding cell. Harry was now glad for another reason that he hadn't used his wandless magic to attack Narcissa. Frequent visitors like Kingsley and Willowberry seemed to consider him less dangerous because of that, or at least better able to control his power than they had reckoned.

Of course, there was inevitably a disadvantage to that, as Draco would say, and the present one was Willowberry deciding to visit him in what Harry thought must be the middle of the night—though since the light in the holding cell never varied, he couldn't say for certain. He sat up on the bed and put on his best expression of polite interest. Willowberry had taken the seat across from him and held up his wand, lit as though they were underground and he expected to have to guide Harry out through a maze of twisting tunnels. His face was locked in a frown Harry hadn't seen before. It wasn't the confused one, or the one that said he was certain someone was breaking the rules; he looked as though he _knew_ there was a wrongdoer under his nose but he hadn't caught him yet.

Harry waited, and waited, and still the Auror said nothing. Harry refrained from snorting with a massive effort of self-control. Did Willowberry really intend the silence to make him nervous? Well, Harry didn't intend that. He leaned back against the wall and let his eyes fall shut again.

"_Potter,_" said Willowberry insistently, and a flash traveled over Harry's shut eyelids that must be him waving his wand. "I want to talk to you, I said."

"You haven't done much talking so far," said Harry mildly, and opened his eyes. "I thought you might prefer to stare instead." He turned his head helpfully to the side so Willowberry would have a better view of his profile.

The Auror hummed under his breath and then spent a few moments huffing to himself. Harry watched in amusement, certain that it was meant to be a calming or meditation pattern, and also that Willowberry wasn't performing it particularly well. Poor Willowberry; it probably didn't have enough rules for him.

"I want you to look me in the eye," said Willowberry at last, staring at him again, "and tell me that you don't have magical creature blood in your mother's side of the family."

Harry laughed. Willowberry's brow furrowed and he sat up, as though he suspected Harry was about to admit he had lied all along.

"I've already spent most of the day answering questions about this," Harry said. "You made every inquiry you could think of, rephrased them, and tried to trip me up without my noticing when you repeated something I had already said back in a doubting tone. Either you believe what I said, which makes this interrogation unnecessary, or you don't believe anything, which makes a solemn vow to tell the truth now useless."

"Look me in the eye," said Willowberry, his voice rising and turning triumphant. "If you can't do it, then I shall have to think you lied to me indeed."

"First tell me whether or not you believed me."

"Swear!"

"Such a child," Harry said in gentle contempt. "I'm sure Skeeter would be quite interested to note that unjustifiably accused prisoners are woken in the middle of the night and told their word is doubted. Muggles used such techniques as a method of torture, did you know?" he added, remembering something Hermione had read to him.

"This isn't torture," said Willowberry, sitting up as straight as though someone had rammed a poker up his arse.

"Then stop making me think it is." Harry lay back on his bed again. "Yes, I'm telling the truth about magical creature blood in my mother's family. I don't know much about the history of any great-grandparents and so on, but everyone I knew from that family during my lifetime was completely Muggle. As I said, if you can prove something else, then find the evidence." His eyes sagged shut almost involuntarily. He was tired, and his head hurt. He wasn't sure if that was some consequence of the potions he'd taken or of Narcissa's spell.

"But you must have magical creature blood to do what you did," Willowberry persisted. "No ordinary wizard can simply make someone else into a Squib by willing it."

Harry opened one eye. "Can an ordinary wizard defeat a Dark Lord?"

Willowberry scowled at him. "That's different."

"And you're an expert on defeating Dark Lords as well as making people into Squibs?" Harry let the other eye open. "What an interesting life you must have led. I could have used your help when I was fighting Voldemort."

Willowberry stood up, and his frown had transformed back into a scowl that said someone was breaking rules and he knew exactly who. "You're mocking a very serious investigation, Potter," he said. "People have gone to Azkaban for lesser crimes than stealing someone's magic."

Harry sighed and put an arm over his face. "You would have arrested Daphne Greengrass for unauthorized use of Legilimency and torturing another wizard if I hadn't intervened," he said. "Or maybe you wouldn't have. Does the Ministry not care about crimes unless they take place in a Pensieve?"

"You couldn't look me in the eye and tell me that you were telling the truth," Willowberry whispered. "That will count heavily against you."

Harry refused to lift his head when he heard Willowberry walk out of the cell. He did listen to make sure he heard the slight click of the door ward engaging. After the fiasco with Narcissa gaining entrance to his cell, he didn't want anyone else walking in as easily.

The pillow was hardly comfortable. Harry punched it and lay down, trying to recapture the dream of Draco he'd been in the middle of when Willowberry woke him. It was a good thing the Auror didn't appear to be inclined to glance down.

* * *

"I can hardly believe that Diggory would be so stupid."

Draco tried not to sneer at Shacklebolt, but it was hard. The Minister had just been confronted with _recorded _proof that his rival was a potential murderer. If the memories of Harry taking Daphne's magic had been admissible as evidence to arrest him, then this should guarantee a questioning of Diggory at the very least. And yet Shacklebolt watched the Pensieve with a pale face, as if it contained evidence of his own crimes instead.

"He was desperate, I believe," Draco said simply. He reminded himself that his father had taught him to handle harder situations than this, even more exasperating ones. That he was using Lucius's lessons as they had never been meant to be used only made him wish he someday had the chance to tell his father about it. "Harry's arrest hadn't stopped me, or even distracted me from the business of selling Desire. Nor was I intimidated when he showed up with his—call them an honor guard. He offered me what he assumed was the dearest desire of my heart and was confounded. He suddenly had to confront the possibility that he didn't understand me as well as he had believed he did, and that meant I might be able to harm him further. His actions are understandable in that context."

Shacklebolt was staring at him by the time he finished. Draco flattered himself that he saw a little more respect in the man's eyes than before, and even in the slow, considering tilt of his head. "And you do not think this is a simple ploy, undertaken in the hopes of your doing just what you're doing now?" Shacklebolt tapped his fingers lightly against the side of the Pensieve. "He could have anticipated a recording spell so near your shop and spoken his words accordingly."

"If we succumb to paranoia," Draco snapped, "Diggory will win the election and he'll deserve to. What's the real reason for your reluctance to help us? I expected more enthusiasm from Harry's friend than this. Now we've handed you the proof you need to damage Diggory's campaign and you won't even try?"

Granger was giving him a scandalized look, Millicent an approving one. Draco ignored them both and fastened his gaze on Shacklebolt, waiting for an answer.

The Minister sighed wearily and rubbed a hand over his bald scalp. "You don't understand how popular Diggory is," he said, "or how badly unnerved the wizarding public in general was when they found out about Harry's ability to eat magic."

"Considering that the _Daily Prophet _hasn't reported even one riot or one general article on the change of views amongst that wizarding public, you cannot blame me for being uninformed," Draco said. "I think it's something else. What has Diggory done to you that you're afraid to stand up to him?"

"I am not _afraid,_" Shacklebolt said, a shadow of Gryffindor temper darkening his expression for the first time.

"Really." Draco leaned forwards. "Then tell me why you're trying so hard to hand this election to him. Words ought to be easy for you if actions aren't."

Shacklebolt leaned towards him in turn. "I have to think of the good of the wizarding world at all times," he said quietly. "And I must consider whether the time has come to give up my office for the better man."

Draco put his head in his hands. "I understand now," he said, and didn't even bother to hide his disgust. "You aren't frightened of Diggory, in the way I assumed, or unwilling to aid a friend who's done so much for you. You're mad."

Shacklebolt continued speaking in an even, quiet voice, though a muscle was jumping in his jaw when Draco looked up at him. "Diggory has run an excellent campaign. He's borne up through several disappointments—"

"Some of which Harry and I inflicted on him because he wouldn't leave us alone of his own free will," Draco said.

"And still continued to make popular speeches. He has support in the Ministry. He's promised changes that, frankly, we need and he might be able to make, better than I can. I depend too much on the backing of men and women who still cling to objectionable beliefs and old-fashioned ways of doing things." Shacklebolt gripped the edge of the desk as if he were also hanging onto his patience. "His irrational fear of the Desire potion and Harry, and the time and effort he has devoted to blocking and hindering you, is the only blemish on an otherwise excellent reputation."

"I'd think it a rather large blemish," Millicent said, as if idly. Nevertheless, Shacklebolt flushed under her tone as he hadn't under Draco's.

"He's tried to intimidate us," Draco said, "publicly humiliate us, and have Harry put in Azkaban. He's tried to make the Desire potion illegal even though it contains no harmful ingredients and has benefited many people—and was declared legal by your own Potions Committee. Tell me, Minister, does that sound like a man who could take opposition gracefully? What will happen if someone irritates him when he sits in the Minister's office? Would he take the same measures, and behave like the same idiot when someone managed to successfully elude his vengeance long enough?"

Shacklebolt closed his eyes. "As much as it pains me to say it," he murmured, "the Minister's office has taught me some of the same lessons Dumbledore must have learned. Sometimes you have to risk the safety and happiness of one person for the safety and happiness of all of them. I don't want—" He shook his head for a moment. "It's unfair that Harry should have to bear the burden twice. But it's what's happened."

"I can't believe I trusted you at one point."

Granger in a fury was nearly as impressive a sight as Harry, Draco thought. She strode forwards with her hands clenched in front of her, her elbows sticking crookedly out from her sides. She had no color in her face, but that only made the fixed stare of her eyes more frightening. She made a movement so quick that Draco was still blinking and trying to trace it when he realized she was now holding her wand.

Shacklebolt fell back a step and lifted his hand. "Hermione—" he began soothingly.

"You're selling a friend out because you're a coward," Granger said. Draco winced. He had thought the same thing, but he wouldn't have said it quite so bluntly. It seemed he still had something to learn about Gryffindor tactics. "You don't want to put in the effort that fighting Diggory would take. Or you don't want to win your victory by what you think are 'underhanded' means, even though the only weapons we'd use against Diggory are his own words and actions. Or maybe it's simpler than that." She laughed, but the sound was as sharp and humorless as the crack of a breaking branch. "Maybe you can't stand the thought of seeing an uncomplimentary article about you in the _Daily Prophet._"

"Ridiculous. If I could have spared Harry Diggory's harassment, I would have—"

"Then _do it!_" Granger screamed the last two words, and Draco took a step back before his body consulted his mind. "You have the chance now! We've given you everything, Pensieve memories and a legal means of crippling Diggory's campaign, and still you pretend that his _principles _are too high and fine to merit opposing him! Where are _your _principles, Kingsley? When did you start thinking it was better to compromise with someone trying to destroy your friends than fight them? Do you think, do you really believe, that Dumbledore would have made the same kind of bargain with Voldemort?"

"Comparing Diggory to Voldemort is—"

"Justified when we're talking about their hatred and determination to destroy Harry." Granger advanced, and backed Shacklebolt into a corner. He appeared to realize that, as he straightened, folded his arms, and frowned at her. Granger only came closer, so he had to drop his arms as she crowded him. "You've spent too long in the halls of power. You can't even remember what it was like to act as a friend, or a private individual. And you're concerned that because Diggory happens to be popular, he should win. Because, of course, popular opinion in the wizarding world has always been right. How many people refused to believe Voldemort had returned? How many of them thought Harry was a Dark wizard when he was _twelve years old_, just because he could speak to snakes? You'll let the same thing happen, let in a man you _know_ isn't fit for the Ministry—" she stabbed a finger at the Pensieve "—because those people support him?"

"The wizarding population isn't made up of idiots who need to be governed for their own good, as you seem to be implying," Shacklebolt said stiffly.

"No," Granger snapped, "but it's not thanks to you." She calmed abruptly and gave Shacklebolt a bitter smile. "I wondered why you had stopped achieving so many great things in the past few years. The fear got to you, didn't it? You started worrying so much about what people would say that you ignored the lesson that actions mean more than words."

Shacklebolt made a motion as if he would draw his wand, but with Granger that close to him, he simply hit her shoulder with his elbow. Draco leaned back against the wall and watched with a grin. So far he'd only had the chance to see Granger intimidating Theodore Nott. It was about time she had a target worthy of her ire, since Theodore had writhed and whimpered and given up disappointingly quickly.

"All I'm asking you," Granger whispered, "is whether you can live up to your own principles, and give Harry the fair trial you know he deserves. If this evidence isn't admitted, the trial won't be fair."

"Diggory is not the one who brought the charges against Harry—"

"But he _is_ the one who helped Mrs. Malfoy get past the Aurors guarding him," Granger said, with a sharp tap of her wand to Shacklebolt's forearm, "and you're close to discovering hard evidence of that, aren't you?"

Shacklebolt couldn't conceal his hesitation in time. Granger nodded. "Then we need this evidence to show that Diggory has a vendetta not only against Harry, but against Harry's lover." Draco raised an eyebrow, impressed in spite of himself with how Granger's voice didn't even falter on that last word. "Without it, it's possible the Wizengamot would dismiss the connection as too tenuous, or accept the argument that Diggory didn't know what Mrs. Malfoy intended when he ordered those Aurors out of the way."

Shacklebolt drew in a deep breath. "I must admit that I'm ashamed of how I've acted lately," he said quietly. "And ashamed of how Charlemagne has acted. I wouldn't have believed him capable of stooping to this, no matter how frightened he was of Harry. I still think there's a chance that he might win the election, and there are ways in which that would be a good thing. He's frightened of fewer things than I am." A faint smile touched his face as he said it. "But you've reminded me that we _can_ fight, and the election hasn't been held yet. Thank you, Hermione."

"You're worried about Diggory's popular support," Millicent said suddenly.

The Minister turned a glance that was obviously meant to be quelling on her. Draco hid a smile. It was also obvious that he didn't know Millicent. "I believe I said so."

"There's another kind of popular support," Millicent said. "Skeeter's articles will be stirring it up, and Granger and I have sent a few letters to interested persons. Surely you remember that Potter has a reputation, Minister? We discussed that last time we met. I think it the equal of or surpassing Diggory's reputation." She polished her fingernails on the edge of her robe, looking supremely disinterested. "And soon, Diggory will know that as well. I should say that he'd know tomorrow, in fact."

And as much as Shacklebolt tried to question her, that was all she would say on the subject. In the end, the Minister accepted the memories and ushered them out the private Floo in his office. Draco decided he might as well return to Granger's flat for the evening; Harry's flat would be lonely without him there, and perhaps subject to opportunistic enemies.

He took a moment to watch Millicent and Granger as they stepped out of the hearth. They were already arguing about what the most effective tactic to use after they had begun to stir up the initial outrage over Harry's imprisonment. Millicent talked with narrowed eyes; Granger's cheeks were flushed and she was gesturing.

Draco startled himself by feeling a flash of pity for Diggory.


	17. Hostile Audience

Thank you again for all the reviews!

_Chapter Seventeen—Hostile Audience_

"Do you feel like telling the truth this morning?"

Harry hid his smile behind the bowl of porridge Willowberry had brought him. Most of the time, the Auror retreated outside the holding cell whilst Harry ate, as if he wanted to give him a little privacy or didn't like his table manners. Now he sat in the chair across from the bed and stared steadily, speaking his questions in an inflectionless voice. So far, Harry hadn't bothered to answer any of them. He wanted an audience. It was the basic principle of the plan he and Draco had come up with when he was still in hospital: make confessions where more person than one can hear them, so that there will be the word of multiple witnesses if something goes wrong. Act in public whenever possible, so no one can accuse you of trying to hide evidence. Force Diggory and the Malfoys into the open, where they would do worse than in the shadows.

"I will ask until you tell me," Willowberry said, and leaned nearer. "Until you look me in the eye and tell me." For the first time, the smooth surface of his voice cracked, and Harry could hear the plea he thought the man would have liked to use all along, if he hadn't been worried about looking weak. "Do you know what it would mean to the wizarding world if they found out their hero simply stayed silent like a sullen child and then had to be dragged to justice? You can maintain your reputation better if you speak."

Harry looked halfway up and let his smile be seen this time. "Diggory and the Malfoys have done their best to ruin my reputation in any case," he said. "And there are some people who will never trust me again no matter what I do, because they don't trust anyone who can eat magic. I think it better that I should please myself."

Willowberry edged the chair closer. "But you could give something back to the world," he said.

"Something _back_?" Harry snorted and picked up another spoonful of porridge. Someone had added honey to it, which was thoughtful. Harry let it play around his tongue and continued to look at Willowberry the way he had at Snape during his sixth year, without quite meeting his eyes. "What do I owe them?"

"You caused them fear when it was revealed that you attacked Daphne Greengrass," Willowberry replied swiftly. His entire face had taken on a soft flush, as if he were a worshipper who'd just seen his god. "This would relieve the fear. If they know that your magic comes from a particular strain of blood in you—if you were part Dementor, for example—the unknown would become the known, and they would be more sympathetic to you when the trial began."

"If I confessed such a thing," Harry said, and licked the spoon, "it would be akin to saying that there's no need to try me, because you could sentence me as a magical creature under the law."

"Wouldn't it be better to be honest than dishonest, whatever happens?' Willowberry wheedled. The flush spread over his cheeks, and Harry wondered if he was remembering sins committed in his own past—assuming that he had ever committed any and hadn't been born the Ministry's perfect lackey.

"And I am being honest." Harry smiled at him. "And sensible. A friend of mine told me that the Wizengamot hardly ever finds humans guilty under this law, so that means I won't be found guilty."

"But you might have magical creature blood in your line and not know it."

Harry set the porridge bowl aside and sat up. He was getting tired of this nonsense. "Then imploring me to stop lying to you would have no effect whatsoever." He tried to catch Willowberry's eye now, simply to emphasize his words.

The Auror was leaning forwards so far he had almost fallen off his chair. His fingers were locked around his wand as though he imagined he could use that as a club should Harry reach out and try to devour his magic. His eyes were brilliant and stared directly into Harry's. Whatever he was, it wasn't a coward.

And then—

Harry winced and lifted a hand to his head as a sharp pain stabbed at him through the eyes. A brief whirl of memories dashed across his mind, and he wondered for a moment equally brief if this was a consequence of the spell Narcissa had used on him. But no, those sensations were familiar from older times still.

Harry broke eye contact with an effort and looked down at his hands. He made his voice as innocent as possible. "Have you told anyone that you're a Legilimens, Willowberry?"

Silence ensued, so pure and concentrated that Harry knew it could only end with Willowberry lashing out at him with a spell. Therefore, he continued speaking through it, adding a slight tone of humor to his voice. "I've had people read my mind before, and do a bloody poor job of it. It isn't supposed to hurt, according to Draco, and I trust him more than anyone else in the world. But I reckon one reason you've gone undetected is that you're such a weak Legilimens in the first place. Aren't you?" He finally looked up again, achieving eye contact this time without fear. He knew where Willowberry's wand was; it must have been concealed in his sleeve before he started pointing it, to let him make the gesture for the spell without Harry seeing it.

Willowberry had edged back on his chair this time, and was breathing harshly. The hand that held his wand shook. He _wanted _to aim and fire a curse, Harry thought, but his own code of ethics was probably telling him what a bad idea it was to attack a prisoner—particularly this one, at the moment.

"You were ashamed for keeping the secret," Harry murmured, "but at the same time, you couldn't bring yourself to betray that you'd studied an art the Ministry disapproves of at all. I understand your insistence on honesty now. We often see our greatest faults as the greatest faults of others." He pitched his voice lower, as soothingly as he could. "The only thing that remains now is what to do with you."

Willowberry's muscles tensed further, but still he didn't move, and the expression on his face now was one of agonized indecision. Harry thought he was safe from a Memory Charm for the next small while.

"I don't want to betray the secret for nothing," Harry said. "You seem to be a good employee of the Ministry despite doing something illegal. You've treated me decently—for the most part." He paused meditatively. "In fact, I think that's what I'll ask for. Stop begging me to tell the truth. What I told you is the truth, and you'll just have to accept it as such."

"That's all you want?" Willowberry whispered. "I tried to use Legilimency on you and treated you wrongly before that, and you only want the wrong treatment to cease? You don't even want a promise that I won't read your mind again?"

Harry chuckled. "Is that really what you call reading my mind?" he asked. Willowberry flushed. "But yes, that's all I want." He didn't say that one reason he was refraining from blackmail was the fact that Willowberry still had the greater power in the situation. Better to leverage what he could from him rather than demand too much and make him strike back.

The Auror rose slowly to his feet, staring at Harry the entire time. Harry waited, his hands braced on his knees. If Willowberry tried to use Legilimency on him again, he would consider any bargain off and yell for the guards in the corridor as loudly as he could.

Willowberry cleared his throat. "You are—fairer than I thought you were," he said. "With your ability to devour magic and your Slytherin partner, I thought you would be Slytherin in your actions, as well."

Harry concealed a snort. Of course, considering all the rules Willowberry adhered to, it shouldn't really be a surprise that he wasn't capable of thinking beyond the old roles of the Hogwarts Houses.

"I will not distrust your word in the future." Willowberry briefly bowed his head. "And I will add my voice to those speaking in front of the Wizengamot to ask that you be given clemency. Of course, this means that we will no longer interact, since I cannot think of you as a prisoner from an objective distance."

He slipped out of the room before Harry could do more than blink in surprise. He'd forgotten to take the porridge bowl and spoon with him, too. Harry licked the latter one more time, then shoved the bowl away from him and lay back on the bed.

They had Littlesmith and Willowberry, now, as well as the recording of the confrontation Draco had hoped to provoke Diggory into if all had gone well. Harry wondered for a moment if they could accumulate other weapons before the trial started.

Of course, they wouldn't have had to do this in the first place if Diggory could have just _left well enough alone, _and accepted that Harry and Draco _would _brew Desire and Harry _didn't _want to support him.

Harry found himself snarling, his fists digging into his knees, his head and throat filled with choking rage. He rolled over and slammed his fists and knees into the bed, harder and harder as he thought about what Daphne had done to Draco and what their silent war with Diggory and Nott had cost him.

The rage built until he was glad no one was in the cell with him, because he would have injured them. And at the same time, he _regretted_ no one was with him, because causing pain would have eased his intense emotion.

The feeling ended as suddenly as it had begun, leaving Harry weak and sick and shaky, as if he had just avoided a long fall. He shivered. _That must be one of the surges of emotions the Healers described, _he thought. Even his thoughts were distant and seemed to originate from behind a glass wall.

He still had the potion that Healer Mordant had given him. He fumbled for it, his hand shaking. What had she said? Mostly that he should wait until the feeling was gone before he took the potion.

But it was gone. The mere thought of attacking someone else right now, let alone killing, made him sick. He gulped the potion and shuddered as he felt it working its way down his throat, chalky and with an unpleasantly sweet aftertaste.

He laid the empty vial down next to the porridge bowl and curled up on his side. If he could get a few hours' sleep, he thought he would wake with a clearer head.

He'd barely shut his eyes when he heard the sound of the wards on the door parting. He rolled over, hoping that this wasn't more of the Aurors arriving for an interrogation. He hadn't been told he would be questioned today, but then, why would he be? Keeping him in the dark meant they held a measure of power over him.

"Potter," said the Auror who stepped in, a woman with straggly blonde hair and a grimy face. "Fair warning. You have an hour before your trial begins in front of the Wizengamot."

Harry stared for so long that she began to leave the cell. Then he shook his head and managed to say, although his tongue still felt heavy with the potion, "I thought the trial wasn't going to be for days yet, until they'd accumulated all the evidence they need to try me."

The Auror glanced back at him and lifted her right shoulder in an impatient shrug. "I'm not the one who makes the decisions, Potter," she said. "Complain to the Wizengamot when you see them, though I doubt they'll regard you." She started to leave again.

"Can I have parchment and ink?" Harry blurted. "I need to send an owl."

The Auror gave him a cold, clear smile. "And why would I do that?" she asked. "Your trial's to be closed. No one allowed there but you and officials from the Ministry. They decided it was safer that way, after the assassination attempt that Malfoy made on you."

And she shut the door, leaving Harry shaken, hoping desperately that none of the surges of emotion caught up with him during the trial, and hoping, too, that Draco would somehow sense what he was thinking by a miracle and choose that day to come to the Ministry and investigate the Wizengamot's courtroom.

* * *

"There's one problem with that plan," Draco pointed out patiently. Actually, there was more than one, but he thought Millicent and Granger determined enough that they would only listen to the most pressing. "My father isn't likely to trust any letter I send. He may come, yes, but he won't meet us in a public place, which you need for your vengeance, and he'll come prepared. He might easily take me hostage or hurt me before you could cast your spells, whatever they are."

Millicent frowned at him, then gave several long, slow nods. She turned away to whisper furiously to Granger. Granger stood with her arms folded, eyes fixed severely on Draco as if she thought he was being difficult on purpose.

Draco shook his head and lay back on Granger's couch. He felt oddly restless. He'd gone to the shop and sold Desire half the day, until he reached the end of his supply and had to close. To the indignant patrons arriving late, he'd shrugged apologetically and said that, with Harry in prison, he didn't know when he'd have the chance to brew more.

Several of them had marched away with set and determined faces. Draco hoped they would do something to challenge or protest Harry's unjust imprisonment, though he had no idea whether their tactics would actually work.

Granger and Millicent, meanwhile, had spent the day writing letters, receiving post, and, now, debating the best way to draw Lucius into public so they could take their revenge on him. Having Draco write an apologetic letter was right out, and they should have known that. Lucius would certainly read any letter Draco sent, but that didn't mean he'd agree to follow the instructions in it.

Draco himself was not certain that he wanted to write such a letter, even assuming he could achieve the proper apologetic tone. Why should he have to pander to his father's mad beliefs when he had told the truth to his mother? If anything, perhaps he should write a letter to Narcissa advising her to tell Lucius what Draco had said to her.

_But Mother probably doesn't believe me, either, _Draco thought, and tucked his arm over his face. _They never will, because that would mean having to confront the cracks in their own beliefs. If I'm never coming back to them even when it would be in my own best interest, then I left not because of my own stubbornness and stupidity, but because they didn't manage to teach me well enough. Who knows? I may look as mad to them as they do to me._

"Yes, it would work," said Millicent, recalling Draco's attention abruptly.

Granger shook her head. "You're wrong if you think Malfoy would agree to enter the same house with someone he'd consider a Mudblood."

"We wouldn't have to tell him that."

"But I would have to appear to do what you're describing." Granger ran a hand through her hair in agitation. It didn't appear to have any effect, from what Draco could see. "And assuming he didn't walk away immediately, assuming he _did_ accept the drink from me, you still don't know it would have the effect you're describing."

"I know Lucius well."

"Not _that _well. Even Harry only managed to figure out how I would respond because he'd asked me and he could observe my behavior to see how my actions would bear out my words. We have no chance of observing Malfoy in his private moments, and I'd hate to risk our vengeance on something with less than even chances of working."

"Maybe better than even," said Millicent, and turned to look at Draco thoughtfully.

Draco sat up and watched them in silence, ready to drop to the floor and roll if Millicent's wand turned to aim at him.

"We did want to keep our vengeance a secret for some time," said Millicent, her smile as hard and glittering as her eyes. "But which did you want more? A surprise, or the chance to possibly humiliate Lucius through the skill that drove you away from him in the first place?"

Draco leaned towards them. "I think you know the answer to that."

* * *

Harry took a quick glance around the courtroom as he was hurried towards the chair in the middle of the floor. It looked much as it had when he was brought there to be tried for using underage magic, though the Wizengamot members weren't as overwhelming as they'd been to his fifteen-year-old self.

Nor, he realized as he was seated in the chair and bound with the chains on it, were they all present. Kingsley was missing. So were several familiar faces Harry had often seen in association with the Minister, his assistants and undersecretaries. All the other people who held formal membership in the Wizengamot—judges, old pure-blood witches and wizards, some of those who sat on the Hogwarts Board of Governors—looked to be there. Harry curled his fingers into the chains and resisted the impulse to give them a mighty yank, which would probably unsettle his audience further. If Diggory hadn't arranged for the trial to be moved up himself, his tools on the Wizengamot had.

Some of them met Harry's gaze now and smiled, or simply raised an eyebrow, as if challenging him to challenge them. And Harry couldn't, because he had no evidence on them, only on Diggory and the Malfoys, and whilst he could protest, he was likely to be ignored.

They had left one obvious gap, however, and even if they had prepared counterarguments, he would be stupid to ignore it.

"I was under the impression that Minister Shacklebolt would be attending my trial," he said casually as the Aurors stepped away from his chair and trained their wands on him. "After all, his people were the ones to arrest and hold me, to escort me to and from hospital, and to interrogate me as to the existence of magical creature blood in my family lines."

"Minister Shacklebolt has been—unfortunately delayed," said an older woman Harry didn't know, who wore her white hair piled onto her head in a towering cone which a pointy hat couldn't cover. She had only two teeth, and she bared them when she smiled at Harry. "We did try to reach him by owl and Floo, but when he didn't respond in a few hours, we decided we must simply hold the trial without him." She spread her hands in a gesture of regret. "Since all matters of the trial will eventually be part of public record, we didn't feel it worthwhile to disturb whatever important business has engaged him."

She smiled more broadly, and Harry realized he had no idea who she was, and wouldn't know even if she had given her name. His retreat from the wizarding world in the last five years had deprived him of much useful knowledge. Even though he'd never intended to go into politics, he could have kept up with those who entered the Wizengamot and _their _politics. As it was, the only thing he really knew was their commitment to tradition and that only a few of them were Muggleborn.

He widened his eyes and kept his voice as polite as possible. "Still, wouldn't it be best to wait for him? Minister Shacklebolt has a temper, at times, when he isn't included in official procedures that he should have been notified of."

The witch laughed, and as far as Harry could tell, it was a sound of genuine amusement. "Mr. Potter," she said. "I've studied your history and talked to people who knew you at school. Your concern for rules has, in the past, been minimal."

"I've tried to learn better, in the last few years," said Harry, trying to sound modest, but the witch shook her head briskly and turned away from him.

"Prunella?" she asked, and another witch, this one gray-haired, nodded and took over the proceedings, calling out a long list of names. Harry tried to watch the nodding heads and connect the names with faces, but they went too fast—he did notice that the white-haired witch was named Eleanor Williams—and for the most part they weren't names he was already familiar with, meaning he lost precious moments trying to figure out if he'd heard of them before.

He could, of course, lash out with wandless magic, strongly enough to free himself from the chains on the chair. The attack would trigger wards and bring more Aurors running to Stun him, but he might be able to do—something—in the moments before they took him captive again.

_And every one of those actions is only more likely to condemn you, assuming that they aren't about to do so anyway._

Harry's attention was distracted by a sudden tickle on the back of his neck. He shuddered, for a moment thinking that one of the Aurors who had attended him into the room was pressing her wand there. But the tickle continued, and crawled slowly around the side of his throat and down to the collar of his shirt, where he could just glimpse it.

It was a brilliant beetle, with a marking like a pair of spectacle around its antennae.

Harry was afraid he stopped breathing for a moment, but given that the Wizengamot members were still responding to the list of names that the woman named Prunella called out, he didn't think anyone noticed. Then he thought of the Aurors with their wands trained on him and their eyes alert for any sign of magic or defiance, and started to shiver with awareness of the risk Skeeter was taking.

Skeeter, however, had already crawled back into his hair. Harry turned to face the Wizengamot again, determined this time. He still wanted to be polite and calm enough that they didn't sentence him to Azkaban just on general principles, but knowing that someone was here to witness and record his words, he would _speak _those words.

The calling of names finished at last, and Prunella leaned forwards to stare at him. "You will speak only when spoken to, Mr. Potter," she said. "You will answer every question fully and truthfully. Is there anything about these requirements you do not understand?"

"What assurance do I have that I'll be believed even if I tell the truth?" Harry demanded. "I told the interrogators there was no magical creature blood in my mother's or father's families to my knowledge, and that's still true. But if I say it in front of the Wizengamot, will they accept that, or accuse me of lying?"

He imagined that he felt the beetle's legs tap at the nape of his neck in excitement.

"The Wizengamot will, of course, determine truth even as it determines justice," said Prunella.

Harry took a breath so deep and held it so long that it made faint stars burst in front of his eyes. Then he took a risk. If the Wizengamot accepted his request, it was probable he'd say things he'd regret, but he didn't think they would dare accept it. And their reaction would be interesting for his silent audience to report, whatever happened.

"I would like to request that the trial be conducted whilst I'm under the influence of Veritaserum," he said quietly.

Prunella's eyes widened in shock. Eleanor Williams whipped her head around and all but snarled at him. _Take that, Diggory, _Harry thought. He was as sure as he could be without direct proof that she was one of the Wizengamot members allied with the bastard.

On his neck, the beetle's legs scrabbled with glee.


	18. Up to the Challenge

Thank you again for all the reviews!

_Chapter Eighteen—Up to the Challenge_

Draco sat back in his chair for a moment and breathed steadily, concentrating on an image of his father as he had looked the morning Draco received his Hogwarts letter. For a moment, he had paused in his reading of a Dark Arts book and looked up at Draco out of the intense contemplation that marked his every move and detached him from the world. He had stared until Draco found himself squirming, the eyes cutting at and marking him. And then Lucius had nodded once, that small gesture Draco would have cut off his right hand to achieve when he was eleven, and returned to his reading.

Draco opened his eyes and seized the chunk of scrying crystal on the table in front of him, flinging it into the cauldron. He heard it clink and ring against the other ingredients gathered in the forming potion: a scale from a Hungarian Horntail, a piece of ice enchanted to keep it from melting, and a strip of silver wire that Millicent had told him once belonged to one of her aunts who was arrested for use of an Unforgivable. Because only a shallow layer of water covered them, the noises they made would be audible for quite some time.

And all of that mattered. Even the bubbles that rose from the small amount of magic he had channeled into the water so far—invoking just enough heat to challenge the enchantment on the ice—mattered.

Draco didn't know what the entire pattern would look like yet, but he had taken several individual steps, and he was satisfied with each one so far.

He tapped his fingers on the rim of the cauldron, because it seemed the right thing to do, and then sat back in the chair with his arms folded behind his head, breathing deeply. Both Millicent and Granger had left the flat when Draco said he wanted to work on the potion alone. Draco was grateful for the silence, even if it did seem to press hard on his head, pushing his eardrums flat and making his mind sing. It was the silence that would influence the potion in yet another desired direction. How many hours had Lucius spent alone in silence, staring into his own books and cauldrons, coming up with plans that would take months or years to play out?

_And that is his greatest weakness. He is so used to thinking in the long term that he forgets to think of immediate consequences. He assumed I would return to him because I couldn't help myself, because in the long run my loyalty to my family would have to win out. He wasn't capable of seeing the disgust and regret that played into my initial rejection and strengthened it over time._

The room seemed to shift sideways. Draco opened his eyes and groped for a moment. He held a white eagle feather seconds later. He breathed on it and then tossed it into the cauldron. It floated gracefully down. Draco heard it settle on the surface of the liquid, making a far heavier splash than it should have been able to.

He didn't think he would ever be able to brew this potion again; already some of the steps were becoming cloudy in his memory, and though he knew they were right, he didn't know _why_ they were right, which was the secret to recreating a recipe. But he shouldn't need the potion more than once. Either it would work right the first time, or Lucius would be warned and wouldn't let them trap him again.

Draco stood and leaned down to look into the cauldron. He was breathing fast and deeply, as though he had just run half a mile. He stared into the water and caught a shadow moving in the scrying crystal.

_Harry. What are you doing now? What would you advise me to do if you were here? _

The thought drifted through his head, as quickly replaced by another. The point of the thought about Harry was not what he would have advised Draco to do, but that Draco was thinking about him, the partner his father absolutely didn't approve of, at the moment when he was brewing a potion to humiliate that father.

He sat down again and closed his eyes, returning to the silence.

* * *

Periods of rustling and arguing alternated with periods of silence. Harry waited for the Wizengamot's decision, his hands resting on the arms of his chair. He wasn't really calm, but he thought he had the ability to fool them into thinking he was, and that was all that mattered. Finally, Eleanor Williams cleared her throat and looked down at him.

"How do we know that he wouldn't manage to fool us by pretending to swallow the Veritaserum?" she demanded. "We don't. We know nothing about him except that he can devour magic, and that he's the personal friend of Minister Shacklebolt."

"And that I killed a Dark Lord," Harry said helpfully. "You might want to mention that, too."

Williams ignored him, though her face tightened with hatred. "We can't take the chance that he would lie to us," she said. "And we have no one here whom we can trust to give him the Veritaserum correctly and carefully."

"Do a Body-Bind on me," Harry said. "Lengthen my tongue. Then place the drops on it and cast a spell that would cause it to retract into my mouth. That would ensure I couldn't interfere with the potion."

"Do we take our orders from a prisoner, or from our own principles and our own justice?" Williams turned to face the rest of the Wizengamot, her robes swaying about her. Harry didn't think it was a coincidence that the motion meant she didn't need to look into his face. "We should do what _we _feel to be right. We should make thoughtful, conscientious decisions. We cannot with a prisoner talking to us like this. Gag his mouth."

The other members of the Wizengamot moved about uneasily and muttered, or were silent. Even Prunella was shaking her head, though slowly, as if she would like to be convinced of Williams's words if she could. Harry called out, "If you gag me, how am I going to give you answers to your questions?"

Williams swung around to answer him again, but another member of the Wizengamot interfered, a plump witch with spectacles and frizzy hair who made Harry think of what Hermione would probably look like when she was seventy or so. "That's a reasonable question, Eleanor. We have to offer him the chance to tell the truth, even if we can't give him Veritaserum. We have to know what he says was his motive for devouring that Greengrass girl's magic."

"Does it really matter?" Williams demanded. "We know that he's someone who doesn't care about a witch losing her magic. What else do we need to know?"

_She went too far, _Harry thought, feeling a sharp surge of triumph strike through him like the sparks from a fire as he saw the other witches and wizards sitting back in their seats, putting some distance between themselves and Williams. _She might be Diggory's ally, but not everyone here is, and they need some pretenses to conceal the ugly truth from them._

"I think we should be cautious about saying such things," said the frizzy-haired witch pleasantly. "After all, even if this is a trial at which the Minister shouldn't be present because he could not fairly condemn a friend, we will need to have a certain set of Pensieve memories to give him." Williams paused, and Harry reckoned she hadn't thought about how the Pensieve memories would look; she was more anxious about sentencing him. The frizzy-haired witch continued, "And I would like to see what he has to say for himself. Young man, did you know that making a witch or wizard into a Squib is a crime so heinous that at one time the sentence to Azkaban was _automatic_ for those who did so? Without a trial, without questioning? Then it was discovered that different causes of the phenomenon existed. Some magical creatures can do it, and some humans with magical creature blood. Some few wizards can do it deliberately. And then it's sometimes an accidental consequence of powerful spells. So new laws were created, to prevent us from sentencing people unfairly. You are being tried under the law that says you have magical creature blood, and therefore must be registered with the Ministry and kept away from wands. No non-human beings like goblins or house-elves are allowed to carry wands, of course. Do you know why this particular law applies to you?"

Harry worked hard to conceal a smile, especially when Skeeter practically did a tap-dance on the back of his neck. The witch had explained clearly and coherently, and she had given him some time to calm down and think about what he wanted to say in response. Yes, she was an ally. "I don't understand it, madam, really," he said, and then paused. "Could I hear your name?"

She smiled at him. "Winifred Firstfruits."

"As far as I know, Madam Firstfruits, my mother was completely Muggleborn, and came from a purely Muggle family." Harry shrugged, making his chains rattle. The Aurors on either side of him stepped closer with drawn wands. He ignored them. Skeeter scrabbled again, and Harry was sure "his calm, composed defiance under pressure" would become an important point in the inevitable article. "It's possible that there's magical creature blood buried in my father's family, but if so, I have no idea what it would be, and no one has ever mentioned my father showing signs of it, or hinted that I could have trouble because of it."

"Has anyone done research as yet to find out?" asked a wizard who was buried so far back in the rows of seats Harry couldn't see him well.

"I think that Minister Shacklebolt's Aurors were doing some, yes, and also trying to find out if my mother's family might have had hidden magical connections," said Harry, and then shook his head and sighed heavily. "Alas, none of them could be here today to present their evidence."

There was a brief, uncomfortable pause; then Firstfruits said, "I would be interested in knowing how you took the Greengrass girl's magic, and why. What cause could there have been to deprive a witch of that which separates her from Muggles?"

Harry hid a grimace. He was glad he had never known before how many people seemed to regard magic as more important than life itself. He would certainly have thought of the wizarding world with more sourness, instead of the wonderful haven he had needed after Hagrid took him away from the Dursleys. "She was torturing my lover," he answered. "She used Legilimency on him, spells that nearly killed him whenever he tried to tell someone else what was happening to him, and Memory Charms. He forgot what they did in bed together, until she shoved the memories back into his mind a short time before I rescued him."

"I don't believe that," Williams said loudly. "Of course, he's on trial for his freedom, so why should he tell the truth?"

"I can offer you my Pensieve memories of the event," Harry said steadily. "Or you can give me Veritaserum under the conditions that I discussed before. I've offered to take it. You can't fear legal trouble from that."

Williams sneered at him, and Harry shut his mouth hard. Of course, she _could _fear legal trouble from that, since a confession that everyone in the Wizengamot knew to be true would be unlikely to send him to Azkaban, as Diggory desired. And who knew what hold Diggory had on her? Harry wondered idly if she knew about Diggory's stated position to remove some of the pure-bloods from the Wizengamot and replace them with Muggleborns.

"We will deal with testimony alone," Prunella said. "Isn't the word the greatest indicator of truth?"

"No," Harry said. "You'll need to have some evidence under the law for which you're trying me, madam. If I'm not a magical creature, then I've been wrongfully accused, and will need to be freed."

"As it happens," said Williams, and turned her head towards the far door as it began to open, "we have someone here with evidence that says otherwise."

Harry turned his head and found himself staring into the calm, composed face of Charlemagne Diggory.

* * *

Draco was moving fast, tossing in twists of ribbon from the table, scrapings of unicorn hoof, lavender petals, anemone petals. Some ingredients he breathed on or caressed before he threw them in, but the madness of brewing was on him now, and he couldn't have said which were which. Each symbolic significance—his father would require black unicorn hoof scrapings to modulate his mood, he would need the anemone petals because of the blood he had shed in the past under the Dark Lord—shone forth in his mind for a moment and then melted. There was always the next one rising, the most important one for one heartbeat, before he moved on to the next. He bit the corner of his lip savagely and watched the blood drop into the potion, then lifted his wand and channeled his magic so violently into the cauldron that the water leaped up and nearly overflowed the rim.

Then it fell back, and the madness was over. Draco staggered several steps away from the table and sat down hard—unfortunately with no chair beneath him. When he fell on the floor, he closed his eyes and breathed evenly for some time. His hands were curled helplessly on his chest, his fingers cramping.

But it was done.

When Draco stood up and went back to look in the cauldron, limping slightly and massaging his head from the unexpected violence with which it had contacted the floor, he saw the potion shimmering quietly and beautifully in the cauldron. It was the color of crystal, with a tiny vein of red at the bottom. Draco smiled. He had dreamed it would look like that, and he was conscious of that dream now.

A variant of the Desire potion, yes, but as intimately tuned to Lucius as Harry's potion had been tuned to him—drawing on Draco's knowledge of his father to make the bond perfect, and his brewing skill to render the execution flawless.

Draco controlled the urge to touch the potion. It looked like perfect ice with blood imprisoned beneath the surface, but it was liquid, and if he touched it now, the salt from his skin might upset its balance. It needed some moments to cool yet and let the magic he'd poured it into be evenly distributed before he could take a vial.

Stepping back, Draco cast the strongest wards he knew above the cauldron, forbidding anyone from approaching within three feet of it. Then he snatched his cloak and strode towards the door of the flat.

It was still daylight, and that meant he should have time to request a careful, guarded visit to Harry in his holding cell. Draco had a triumph to share.

* * *

Harry gripped the arms of the chair, and then tried to consciously relax his fingers. Of course, someone might already have seen, but he would as soon look unruffled even if he couldn't convince them that he _was _unruffled.

"I would be extremely curious for any information about my background," he said, and forced himself to look directly at Diggory. "For obvious reasons, I never learned much about my parents. If I have unknown relatives, then I'd like to visit them and explore their connections to my mother. Or is it father?"

Diggory came a few steps nearer. He was smiling, the same pleasant smile he'd used when he was still trying to court Harry and Hermione into supporting him. But Harry had learned to watch his eyes, and those were bright and mean, with a glint in the back of them that promised no one in the room any good. Harry braced for the jolt he thought would throw him out of his pretended self-confidence.

"I bring no information about your family line," said Diggory, and held up a glittering vial of liquid that surged back and forth. Pensieve memories, Harry knew at once. "I bring information that will, however, prove you were arrested and tried under the right law. Only a magical creature could have stripped Daphne Greengrass's magic in the way you did."

_Oh, Draco, if only you were here, and they could see your memories, _Harry thought. _Or if Littlesmith was, and could give statements about Daphne's tendencies to torture her lovers. _On his neck, Skeeter had gone still, perhaps simply in intent fascination, perhaps because she was aware that it would take a lot to help him now.

"I do hope that the memories will be projected on one of the screens that I saw briefly at the Malfoys' party," he said. "I would be curious as to what they show, since it must be quite a different perspective than the one I took when I was present in Greengrass's house."

"Why did you have to break into her house?" Firstfruits asked, standing up so that Harry could see her better—or perhaps because she wanted to make herself known, Harry conceded. He doubted anyone in the room was thinking first and foremost about making him comfortable, with the exception of himself. "Such charges were briefly mentioned when we were told that you were to be tried. Even if you wanted to take her magic for some reason, why didn't you obtain an invitation and then do so? You have enough celebrity appeal to be able to win an invitation to any function you wanted."

"Because she was holding Draco Malfoy captive in her house and torturing him," Harry said, catching the line she had tried to throw him. "And I wasn't disposed to knock on the door and wait until she answered."

"Instead," said Diggory, "he ambushed an innocent woman in her own home and devoured her magic. The pain he caused her is _extreme._" He shuddered, his face pale for a moment. He was a very good actor, and in that moment Harry hated him. "I have rarely wished I had not delved into Pensive memories—it has been a necessity more than once, in my occupation—but that is one set of memories I grieve over having to show." His voice was perfect, too, solemn and low, but clear enough to be heard by everyone in the courtroom.

"She was not innocent," Harry said. "She was torturing Draco, and if you would give me Veritaserum, you would see that I speak the truth."

Diggory smiled at him. He was in full control here, Harry thought, and had no reason to give in to any of his requests. Harry felt his fingers clench on the arms of the chair again. Was there some way he could hint at Skeeter's presence here and the embarrassment Diggory would face when the story got out without actually giving her away and endangering her?

"I think Veritaserum a barbaric custom," Diggory said. "Have you read the statistics on the wizards who die each year from swallowing it? A surprising number of people are allergic to aspen leaves, one of the minor ingredients. I think it better for your safety, Mr. Potter, that we refrain from using it. Of course I think you need to be in Azkaban so as not to endanger innocent lives any longer, but there is no reason to kill you."

"I've requested it," said Harry, and gambled wildly. "Under normal Ministry procedure, no one can refuse me the potion if I willingly take it."

"Under normal Ministry procedure," Diggory agreed softly. "But this isn't a normal case. You've already drained one witch of her magic. What might you do again, if you grew angry enough?" He held up the vial so that everyone could see it. "He devoured Greengrass because he was _angry_, sirs and madams. What would happen if he lost his temper now?"

_And now, if I reach out with wandless magic to do anything, they'll panic. _Harry glared at Diggory and let the full force of his hostility show for a moment. Diggory looked back calmly. Harry supposed his desperation had subsided when he realized that he was able to destroy Harry if he wanted.

"And that is a sign that he is of magical creature blood," Diggory said. "Part incubus, in fact. It is not well-known, but incubi can prey on magic—and as Daphne Greengrass was undoubtedly in a room prepared for sexual play, Mr. Potter used her lust to power his rage. The combined force of the emotions destroyed her."

"I dispute that I have incubus blood," Harry said quietly. His heart was beating very fast, and he wondered absently if Skeeter could feel it through her feet. "What proof do you have?"

"Why, the memories, of course, and the shadows and the blue fire you summon," said Diggory. "As for your question about the screens that show the memories, I'm afraid we'll have to give that idea up. I believe the Wizengamot members should experience this for themselves, so that they may gain some idea of what they are judging." He signaled, and Prunella stood and hurried toward him with a Pensieve.

"Are you not afraid," Harry asked, no longer feeling he had any choice, "of what might happen when someone learns that, in fact, incubi don't have any of the traits you mention?"

Diggory looked straight at Harry. "I am telling the truth," he said, and didn't bother hiding his smile.

"Did you hear my question?"

"I hear the desperate pleadings of a man who wants to escape just punishment for his crimes, and will say anything to do so," Diggory replied, and poured the vial of memories into the Pensieve.

Harry sank back into the chair to think. It seemed likely that the Wizengamot would judge him guilty now, and even if Skeeter revealed the story and made Diggory look like enough of a fool to lose the election, it would be hard to reverse a sentence to Azkaban. For most of the wizarding world, the very fact that the Wizengamot had come to that decision, no matter how they had been guided or persuaded, would be a powerful statement.

He would have to come up with another tactic.

If allowed enough time whilst the Pensieve passed around the room and people looked into it, he might even think of one.

* * *

Draco narrowed his eyes at the Auror who barred his way to the holding cells. "What do you mean, he's been taken for trial? The Minister would have to be present at his trial, and I just saw him; he granted me permission to visit Harry."

"Why would he tell you?" the Auror retorted. He was a bored-looking young man with pasty skin who rather reminded Draco of Theodore Nott. "You're a personal friend. You don't have a place in the courtroom."

"I'm a witness," Draco said. "I do have a place. And there were other witnesses we were going to call."

For the first time, the Auror showed signs of uneasiness, darting a glance over his shoulder as though he expected support to materialize out of thin air. "I—I don't know anything about that," he said.

Draco studied him with narrowed eyes. It was perfectly obvious that the man belonged to Diggory. But whilst challenging him might break him and cause him to tell what he knew, it would probably also take far too long. Draco gave a stiff bow instead, mustered a sigh, and said, "Well. If he's been taken for trial, there's nothing I can do."

The young man's face shone with relief as Draco turned away. Once around the corner, he lengthened his strides until he was as near to running as he could get away with in the Ministry.

He suspected there was a Minister who would be rather interested in hearing about this.


	19. The Meaning of Courage

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_Chapter Nineteen—The Meaning of Courage _

"You're certain?"

Draco was certain he had never seen the Minister look so pale, or sound so shaken. _And why not?_ Draco thought, because his parents had trained him to notice and think about such things. _He's just realized that many more people in his government than he thought could be corrupt._

Most of him, however, didn't really care how shaken the Minister was as long as they could rescue Harry before the Wizengamot condemned him. "Yes," he said. "The Auror was certain he'd been taken for trial, at least. It was only when I mentioned that you should have been there that he faltered."

"No one alerted me." Shacklebolt was standing with one hand on his desk, staring down at the Pensieve setting on the edge of it as though it could tell him all the answers. "I thought I had at least one friend among the Wizengamot members, one person who cared more about the future of the wizarding world than his own personal wealth and power. I see that I don't."

Draco rolled his eyes; he felt safe enough, since Shacklebolt was hardly going to glance up and see the gesture. He didn't really want to take the time to soothe the Minister's insecurities, but if he appeared before the Wizengamot trembling, they would find it all the easier to ignore him. "I'd reckon that a few of them who are Diggory's tools planned this," he said. "The others would have been told that the tools tried to contact you but received no answer, or even that you'd approved the trial to go ahead without you as you were too busy planning your campaign. You don't have to fool many people, or corrupt many, as long as you have a few who can speak convincingly at the right time."

"A trick your father must have used often enough," Shacklebolt mused, still not looking up from the Pensieve.

"Yes," Draco snapped, stung into open irritation at last, "and that Diggory is using now. If you would stop brooding over what this says about your friendships and your power, and instead concentrate on what stopping the trial could say about you in the future, then you'd have the chance to repay him."

Shacklebolt seemed to return to himself slowly, as if he had been at sea when Draco's words reached him. Then he looked up, nodded, and closed his hands around the edge of the desk. Draco smiled. Kingsley Shacklebolt had been a warrior, and it showed in the hard gleam of his eyes just then. He might still fear his ability to hang onto his government, but he would put that worry aside for right now to do the actual hanging on. This was the Minister they should have had for the past few years, Draco thought, and had been denied.

"When we invade the courtroom," Shacklebolt said quietly, "I want to have everything ready." He glanced once at the Pensieve that held the recording of Diggory ordering his guards to attack Draco. "Floo Granger, and tell her to summon Littlesmith. I'll leave orders with one of the Aurors I'm certain I can trust that she's to be escorted to the courtroom the moment she arrives in the Ministry."

"I will _not _waste enough time that the Wizengamot condemns Harry before we can get there," said Draco sharply. He waved his wand and the Pensieve rose from the desk, floating beside him. Shacklebolt tensed once, as if he hadn't been certain Draco would use magic for him instead of on him, but he relaxed before the tension could become an insult. "I'll Floo Granger, and I'll allow you to leave the orders, but then we're going to the courtroom."

Shacklebolt stared at him, then looked away with a faint chuckle. "Both you and Hermione seem to have taken lessons in ordering a Minister around," he said. "I wish I knew your teacher."

"Your own weakness," Draco said with contempt. "If you'd been less fatalistic, we wouldn't have had to do this."

Shacklebolt simply nodded, as if to say that he could accept the truth of Draco's words but didn't have to like them, and gestured towards his fireplace. Draco snatched a handful of Floo powder from the mantle and knelt, whilst behind him Shacklebolt opened the door of his office and bellowed a name.

* * *

Harry watched the Wizengamot members dipping their heads into the Pensieve Diggory had provided and emerging with pale faces. Some of them stared at him and then looked away, drawing their robes closer about them. Harry understood then exactly why Diggory had chosen to have them view the memories individually, despite the time it would take. If he showed them on the panels of light that the Malfoys had chosen, there would only be a few minutes of impact. This way, the other Wizengamot members had to watch their fellows shaking with fear, and by the time the Pensieve reached them, they would have been prepared to accept something even more horrific than what they actually saw.

Meanwhile, his brain raced, but he couldn't think of anything that would decisively slow Diggory. He could demand Veritaserum again, but the memories in the Pensieve would be "good enough" for at least some of the Wizengamot, and he couldn't be sure they would agree to give him the potion. He could try wandless magic, but the memories would also work against him there. He could accuse the Wizengamot of illegal proceedings by holding the trial without the Minister present, but he was sure Diggory would have some mealy excuse. The excuse wouldn't hold up under logical questioning, but it would hold up for a few minutes, and enough time to ask extensive questions was exactly what Harry didn't have.

He felt a soft tap on the side of his neck, and looked sideways as much as he could without being obvious; Diggory never took his eyes off Harry for very long if at all. He could see the glitter of Skeeter's carapace without trouble, however, and the flutter of her wings as she lifted one slender leg and pointed straight at the Wizengamot.

She was asking if she should reveal herself, Harry knew. Doing so might change the minds of at least some of the Wizengamot. If they couldn't be brought back to their senses by the knowledge of their own wrongdoing, then maybe the knowledge that they'd be embarrassed for this could help.

But Harry feared for Skeeter's safety if she revealed herself now. And the story she might produce out of this was still valuable, still the trap that might crush Diggory where everything else failed. So he shook his head minutely, and Skeeter retreated into his hair.

She had given him an idea, though. Harry had never understood why Diggory had so fixated on him. Most politicians would have shrugged when they realized Harry Potter wouldn't support them and gone on to someone else. Instead, Diggory had sunk enormous money and time into attempting to destroy him and Draco, financially and socially if not physically. Harry wanted to add the words to Skeeter's story if he could.

And there was the chance—faint, he had to admit—that he would fluster and trick Diggory into exposing something that would go a step too far even for those in the Wizengamot who were afraid of Harry. Harry really didn't think all of them were Diggory's puppets. Instead, they were like most wizards, sheep led along by the loudest call. Eleanor Williams and Prunella were the only ones he was certain had been against him before the trial began; Winifred Firstfruits was the only one he was sure had stood to support him. He might as well try to gather the others the way Diggory was trying to gather them.

So he took a moment to compose himself and called out calmly, boldly, as though the sight of ten people now staring at him with loathing and fear in their eyes hadn't bothered him at all. "Diggory! A question."

He received the empty politician's smile in reply. But that wasn't good enough anymore. Harry raised a challenging eyebrow and asked, "Why did you buy up all Draco Malfoy's debts in an attempt to force him out of business? Why did you go out of your way to invent facts about me, such as my being part incubus? That's a lazy lie, and your explanation doesn't make much sense. How are we to know that incubi feed on magic, except from your claiming that they do? In other words, why couldn't you simply find support elsewhere when I refused you? Why did you _have _to have me running in your train or silenced?"

Diggory's face began to take on a flush of deep color a few sentences into the speech. But he had his back to the Wizengamot, and Harry doubted any of them saw it. He answered easily, too, a faint smile playing around his lips, as though to say he gave Harry credit for his tactics but already knew they wouldn't work. "I consulted with an expert on incubi before I came to the courtroom. As to the rest of your questions, I am afraid my explanations would touch on political principles that you have never brought your brain to embrace."

Harry laughed freely, making several wizards and witches in the gallery above him start and lean forwards. "_Another _lazy lie! What was the name of this incubus expert? Who is he? Or she, though you do seem to have bad luck when you call on women to support you."

"The expert is well-known," Diggory said quietly, "and your childish attempts to make me angry enough to hurt you will not work. I told you before, I have some care for your life, though you have none for the lives of others. I would see you live to go to Azkaban."

"The name, the name!" Harry pounded his fist on the arm of the chair, rattling his chains and making the Aurors move to a better position, where their spells wouldn't strike Diggory if they threw them. Skeeter moved and danced on his neck, excited and frightened at the same time, if Harry could read the pattern of her footsteps clearly enough. "If you're not frightened, you ought to be able to tell us the name easily."

Diggory shrugged. "His name is Frederic Lacewing."

"I've never heard of him," Firstfruits immediately called from the gallery. Harry felt his heart beat like a bird's wings. If he got out of this situation without going to Azkaban, he would make sure to send a gift of some kind to her.

"Would you have?" Diggory turned and smiled up at her. "He's an expert in his own rather specialized field, but I can't pretend that many people spend much time studying esoteric magical creatures, or paying attention to those who do."

"Convenient," said Harry. "Always an excuse. The obscurity of the field, the complexity of your arguments…" He clucked his tongue and tried to remember the way he had felt when climbing on his broom to face the Hungarian Horntail during the First Task of the Triwizard Tournament. He had been frightened until he swung his leg over his Firebolt, and then he had dipped and swerved and soared like a bird, and none of the real dangers had been as bad as those moments of trembling anticipation beforehand.

"If you aren't a liar, Charlemagne, make those arguments," he said. "Explain to me why this trial was supposedly closed to all but the Wizengamot and other appropriate Ministry officials, but _you_ are here. Explain how you even knew about it, when it was also a secret trial. Explain why you happened to have the memories of me devouring Daphne Greengrass's magic, when you weren't the one they were originally sent to. Not much about your story makes sense. It sounds like what it is, a secondary plan put together on the fly when you realized the implications of some of the evidence we'd gathered against you. You aren't good at acting _quickly_, are you? Whenever you've fooled the world into thinking you are, it was always some long-term plan that had a sudden result. You even gave Draco time to pay back his debts, when it would have been better policy just to demand the money from him at once. Too concerned with what people will say about you, too busy trying to derive multiple advantages from a situation instead of only one—silencing your enemy. This is the kind of ground you hate dancing on. You haven't planned well enough, and the flaws in your plot are breaking open."

Harry felt the words pouring out of him with the same high, clear exhilaration he'd felt when he rode on the Firebolt, or when he recited the truth behind Voldemort's actions and his possession of the Elder Wand in front of the entire Great Hall. They probably weren't all true, but they didn't have to be true. What they needed to do was sound good enough to stir doubt in the Wizengamot's minds and put Diggory on the defensive.

_A Slytherin weapon, _he thought absently. _Draco would be so proud of me._

And then, on the heels of that thought, _I hope he'll get a chance to be proud of me, and not simply from the outside of Azkaban's walls, either._

But he lost himself in watching Diggory intently, rather than in considering whether Draco would have that chance. If he allowed himself to brood, he would lose that high he commanded, and with it the confidence to fling random weapons into the air and hope one of them hit Diggory where it counted.

The other man had already gone pale, though it wasn't likely the Wizengamot could see that, either, and he still spoke in a gentle voice. "All the discrepancies can be explained, Potter. But I don't see why I need to explain myself to the likes of you. You're only—"

"A prisoner who has the right to know why he's being tried," said Firstfruits helpfully. "For that matter, _I'd _like to know why he was being tried. Mister Potter has said that no one had any evidence of creature blood in his veins when he was arrested, that they actually had to do research to find out if they had the right to press charges. And now you appear with Pensieve memories of the attack," she said, nodding at the basin now in the hands of a witch not far from her, "but no actual proof this means Potter as an incubus. You claim blue flame and shadows are proof that he is, and when we ask for more proof—you point to blue flame and shadows. I find your argument unconvincing, Mr. Diggory, and less than conducive to the justice of a secret trial, which I wasn't happy about in any case. I move that we adjourn now, and reconvene when we have the Minister among us, as well as the Aurors who actually did research to try and confirm the accusations brought against Mr. Potter."

Disbelieving, Harry heard other voices murmur assent. Of course, maybe there had been people all along who felt opposed to Diggory but were too shy or scared to mention it. That would also fit the patterns of wizarding politics as he knew them. Firstfruits had done him an invaluable job by proposing the motion and giving the others to courage to get behind it.

"We've explained that we tried to contact the Minister and couldn't find him in time," said Williams loudly. "I find it very convenient that you doubt my explanations, Winifred. Are you _sure _that this is the first time you've been so close to Potter?"

"It is," said Firstfruits. "But I know that this isn't the first time you've been so close to Diggory." She glanced around the courtroom. Harry couldn't see her face, but he liked to imagine an expression of inquiring pity on it. "Were _none _of you going to question this? Were the rest of you just going to sit there like puppets with hands up your arses whilst Diggory put the greatest hero of our time in prison, without even the Minister's consent to a trial?" She made a snorting noise that Harry thought was laughter only by courtesy. "I kept sitting still because I thought it was all an elaborate joke and the Minister would leap out and yell, 'Surprise!' at any moment. Or I thought I was dreaming. That's easier to believe, that I've dreamed this all up than that the most powerful politicians in Britain should be content to do what one man with the last name of Diggory tells them. But now I realize it isn't a joke, and I'm going to refuse to let you carry this on anymore."

Williams and Prunella were yelling, trying to interrupt, but Firstfruits lifted her wand; Harry saw it climb into the air on the end of a long, thin air. The air around it shimmered silver, and a moment later a brilliant peacock Patronus materialized in front of Firstfruits.

"Carry my greetings to the Minister," Firstfruits said, "and ask if he would just mind hurrying along to the Wizengamot courtroom."

The Patronus flapped its wings and flew through the far wall. Both Prunella and Williams shot curses after it, but the lines of light simply scorched the wall; Harry could have told them they wouldn't be able to stop a Patronus, if he wasn't laughing too hard to speak.

Diggory stood gazing patiently, sorrowfully, at him, as if he had tried to do Harry a great favor and Harry had misunderstood him. Then he shook his head and said, "After all, we can hold the trial again, if we need to."

_Counting his losses, _Harry thought. _He thinks he'll manage to convince them if he _does _have to try me a second time—and I'm sure he'll arrange for Firstfruits not to be here when that trial happens._

"I see no reason why Madam Firstfruits shouldn't alert the Minister and let me be tried now," he said, spreading his hands so that the chains clanked. "I certainly would welcome answers about why, exactly, I'm being tried under this law."

Diggory shook his head. "You do have incubus blood, you know," he said, with absolute belief in his voice. "You can summon people who will testify otherwise, but at the last, they'll convince no one. I'll summon Mr. Lacewing, and he'll be happy to explain the common signs of an incubus and why you fit the pattern."

"I was right," Harry said, lowering his voice so only Diggory could hear. "I was striking blind, but I hit the target. You really _are _bad with plans that require you to react quickly."

Diggory gave him a look of open hatred, but smoothed his face over again almost at once. "If one tactic doesn't work, I'll simply try another one," he said, and shrugged. "You haven't acquired enough friends in the Ministry to make a real stand against me." He winked at Harry. "And if you are right and I require time to react, only think of how much time a second trial will give me. Especially if your friend the Minister makes the good-faith effort of pushing the trial back a week or so, to give you the days you need to recover."

Harry sighed. "Diggory, you've lost. Can't you admit that? Or does the ridiculous grudge that pushed you into this in the first place blind you even now?" He thought he _did _understand the way the man was behaving now, just as he understood Lucius and Narcissa better after viewing their beliefs through the lens of Draco's mind. Diggory had thought he could safely pursue his hatred of Harry, and by the time he realized he couldn't, he had invested so much effort that admitting he was wrong would have cost him too much of his pride.

"I could ask you the same thing," said Diggory, and then he turned to the far side of the courtroom as the door suddenly opened.

Draco strode in, carrying a Pensieve under one arm. The Minister and Hermione weren't far behind him, but Draco was the one Harry had eyes for first. His face shone clear with perfect relief for one instant as he met Harry's gaze, and then he looked at Diggory and his expression slammed shut. Harry had never seen another human being so intent on someone's destruction before.

Harry grinned and sat back in his chair. _I won't have to do this alone anymore, no matter what happens._

Skeeter was racing in dizzy, giddy circles on the back of his neck. Harry only hoped that she didn't show herself to Diggory. With the stillness that had invaded his body as he stared at the Pensieve under Draco's arm and the man who had entered just behind Hermione, he looked as if he might crush any beetle he saw just to relieve his feelings.

* * *

Granger had caught them up, with Littlesmith, when they were still some distance from the courtroom, and nodded shortly to Draco before she tried to push in front of him. Draco wouldn't let that happen, however. _He _was the one most driven by fear and concern for Harry at the moment, and he wouldn't allow anyone to say otherwise.

Then the peacock Patronus fluttered to a stop in front of them and opened its beak to speak in the voice a woman Draco didn't know, imploring Shacklebolt to hurry on to the courtroom. Draco heard the other man draw in a harsh breath, as if he hadn't believed until that moment that the Wizengamot really had betrayed him.

_Too bad for him,_ Draco thought, as he lengthened his strides even more. _He should have expected treachery from every direction the moment his rivals got too powerful, not coddled it because he thought it might work out better for the wizarding world._

And then they were actually at the courtroom door, and the two Aurors guarding it moved out of the way when they saw Shacklebolt, who had got in front of Draco after all. The Minister paused briefly to cast his own Patronus, for some reason, and Draco shouldered past him once more and made sure he was the first sight Harry would see.

Harry was sitting in the chair in the center of the room, _chained. _Draco saw that before he saw Diggory or the two Aurors standing with wands trained on him, before he made out the mass of frightened faces in the gallery above them. He imagined he could see the red skin those chains had rubbed raw, too.

A surge of murderous feeling swept him as his eyes sought out Diggory. Diggory, of course, wouldn't do him the favor of looking frightened. He simply nodded at Draco, as if he were an entirely expected and welcome visitor, and then turned to Shacklebolt.

"Minister," he said. "You wanted to speak to me?"

Draco suffered a momentary spasm of worry. Shacklebolt had tried to propitiate Diggory so far. If he did it again—

But it seemed he had finally learned his lesson. Perhaps Granger's words were ringing in his head even now. He took a single step forwards and straightened, drawing every eye in the room—or at least Draco's, and if he could convince Draco to look away from Diggory right now, then he could convince others—by the power of his bearing.

"I've come to take charge of this trial," he announced. "Charlemagne Diggory, consider yourself under censure of the Ministry for illegal activities.

And finally, _finally_, the bastard flinched.

But Draco didn't care as much about that as he did about the grin that sprang into being across Harry's face.


	20. The Decline and Fall of Charlemagne

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_Chapter Twenty—The Decline and Fall of Charlemagne Diggory_

"Can someone tell me why there are chains on Mr. Potter's wrists?" Kingsley demanded, stepping forwards. "Surely no one in this room could seriously think the hero of the wizarding world would wish to hurt him—" his eyes flickered to Diggory for the barest second "—and if he were to use wandless magic, then mere bonds would not stop him."

No one moved for a moment, as though everyone on the courtroom floor were hoping that someone else would volunteer for the responsibility. Rather like the Wizengamot members wanting someone to speak up for them, Harry mused. He was no longer going to think that the wizarding world had changed substantially since Fudge's term in office. Clearly much remained to be done.

Then one of the Aurors who had stood to guard him stepped forwards hesitantly and undid the chains with a pass of her wand. Harry sighed and rubbed his wrists, pulling them into his lap at last. Skeeter had been frozen on the back of his neck, as though there were so many things to run in circles about that she couldn't choose a direction, but Harry felt her crawl forwards to the edge of his hair now to look down at his wrists. He obligingly tilted them back and stopped rubbing them for a moment, so she could get a good glimpse of the raw, red patches of skin around them. He was sure they would appear in her article tomorrow under a suitably inflammatory description.

Draco was beside him then.

He shifted the Pensieve he was carrying to his right arm and hugged Harry fiercely with the left, bending down so that Harry's head was tucked into his neck. "I didn't know this was happening," he whispered, "or I would have been here much earlier to stop it. Please believe me."

Harry smiled and raised a hand to touch the small of his back. He suffered a brief spasm of regret that Draco was wearing robes and cloak instead of merely shirt and trousers, which meant he couldn't stroke the band of skin between the clothes in promise. "Nonsense," he whispered back. "It wasn't your fault, and I refuse to listen to any protestations that it was. Haven't we already got enough enemies in the same room?"

Draco laughed quietly, then pulled away and turned to face Diggory. He had fallen back to the side of Harry's chair, and Harry was astonished at how the simple gesture seemed to transform the symbol of his humiliation before the Wizengamot into a throne. "Now," Draco said, in a carrying voice Harry knew he had perfected for talking about merchandise to an entire shop at once, "we shall have a _proper_ trial, with all the evidence needed." He lifted his arm so everyone could catch a glimpse of the silvery Pensieve. "And all the witnesses." He nodded at the man behind Hermione, whom Harry knew was probably Littlesmith.

"Only the Wizengamot has the authority to call for a trial," Prunella began, speaking with immense dignity.

"The Wizengamot, acting with the Minister," Kingsley snapped, and took a step towards the gallery. Though he was far beneath Prunella and could not possibly have hurt her, the woman flinched and drew herself up as though he'd cast a Stinging Hex. Harry arched an eyebrow. "So far as I can see, this has been an illegitimate farce of a trial, called for the sole purpose of embarrassing a man to whom _you_ lot were embarrassed for owing so much." He looked hard at Diggory then.

So did Harry, for the first time since Kingsley had taken command of the room. (Harry didn't know what had happened to put such fire into him, but he suspected it was Hermione). Diggory stood quite still and looked at them with calm patience, like an elder Olympian god bored with the antics of the younger ones.

"If you feel this trial has been conducted in an incorrect manner, Minister," he said, "of course that should be put right as soon as possible. Your word is law—for as long as you hold the office." He bowed.

Kingsley hesitated once. Then he nodded briskly and extended his wand, speaking three muffled words that Harry suspected they weren't meant to understand. At once a silvery staircase extended from the top of the gallery and to the floor. Kingsley stepped onto it and turned to face the rest of them.

"If you intend to be here as a witness," he said, "then the proper place is the floor. If you are only here to observe, then come to the gallery." He nodded at Diggory and began to climb the stairs, as much to say that he was _assured _of Diggory following him.

"I do have testimony," said Diggory. "As one of the witnesses to Mr. Potter's disgusting crimes could not be here today, he entrusted me with his evidence."

"Who is this person?" Kingsley asked, voice dry.

"Mr. Lucius Malfoy."

Hermione snorted and then covered her mouth. Harry grinned at her as Diggory's eyes momentarily became sharp and darted in her direction. He doubted she had anything special to say; she just wanted to make a sound of amusement to disconcert Diggory. It had succeeded. He looked back and forth between Hermione and Draco for a moment, as if trying to decide what they could have planned.

"Excuse me," Hermione said gravely, and put her hand down. "It was very wrong of me to interrupt. You were saying, Mr. Diggory?"

"I have evidence to give," said Diggory. "And therefore I will stay on the floor and present it." He flicked his wand in a brief summoning gesture, and the Pensieve with the memories in it that he'd been handing around the Wizengamot flew out of the hands of the witch holding it and towards the floor.

"As you will," said Kingsley, with a shrug, and continued climbing until he had settled into the Minister's central position. Harry didn't miss the nervous glances that Prunella and Williams, in particular, gave him. Kingsley stared back without seeming to see them, but he had probably memorized their faces.

"Now," Kingsley said, facing the floor, "the trial can begin. As I suspect a great deal of 'evidence' against Mr. Potter has been presented before now, I call his witnesses first."

* * *

Draco grinned. He wished Diggory was looking at him at the moment so he might get the full force of the grin, but he was staring up at Shacklebolt without expression instead. Ah, well. It was good enough that their trap should be sprung almost as they had planned.

"I have the most extensive story to tell," he said, stepping forwards, exactly as though he and Granger had planned he would go first all along. He caught her eye, but she simply inclined her head, and he knew she did not object. "Harry Potter is indeed my lover, and he did break into Daphne Greengrass's home to rescue me. She was torturing me."

Draco closed his eyes for a moment so he could continue, feeling Harry's hand reach up and grip his. He had known this was coming; he had prepared himself for it in the back of his head over the last few days, because he and Harry had agreed during the discussion in hospital that his memories would have to come out. But it was still horrible to talk about.

And he did not think demonstrating his memories to the Wizengamot would be the most effective way of showing the horror, though he and Harry had talked about that as well. After all, so much of what he had suffered was mental, and the Pensieve would demonstrate only the state of his body.

"I would like Veritaserum," he said suddenly.

"I have some," Kingsley's voice announced at the same time as a tramp of footsteps sounded, and Draco turned to see more Aurors entering the courtroom. One of them was Willowberry. One of them also held a glittering vial of clear liquid. Draco had never been so glad to see it.

He accepted the vial from the Auror's hand and twisted it back and forth, squinting thoughtfully at the potion. When he was satisfied with the state of the potion and that it held no impurities, he uncorked it.

"A moment," Diggory said. "Should we not have the potion tested by a Potions expert, so that we know it is not doctored? I mean no disrespect to Mr. Malfoy," he added, as Draco turned and stared at him. "But the Ministry has been less than reliable in this affair, and—"

"You do not have a right to request such things, Mr. Diggory," Shacklebolt said, sounding almost idle. "You are, after all, only a witness."

Draco wished badly that he could look at Diggory's face, but he didn't dare, because he knew he would burst out laughing if he did. Instead, he glanced at the Auror who had given him the Veritaserum and asked, "Is this pure?"

"It is," said the Auror, a young woman with hair as red as a Weasley's and brilliant dark eyes that suggested this was the first severe excitement she'd seen in her training. "I brewed it myself, and I took an Outstanding in my Potions NEWT."

Draco nodded at her as one artist to another, and then placed three drops ceremoniously on his tongue. He grimaced when they began to work and he felt his mind drift softly away from most of the people around him; he had to wait a moment before he could hand the vial of Veritaserum back to the Auror without dropping it.

But throughout the drifting, Harry's hand remained on his, a steadying grip. Draco had never had someone touch him like this, as though they believed in him, and only him. He hoped it would be enough.

"Daphne Greengrass told me that she would lend me money if I became her lover," he began mechanically, grateful now for the distance the Veritaserum afforded him. "I had a great need to raise money quickly because some debts I had owed for some years had been bought up all at once by Cordelia Nott, who worked with Mr. Diggory here. They believed they could thus deprive me of my shop and the means of brewing Desire potion, which Mr. Diggory feared for some reason as a threat to his campaign for the Minister's office."

He did look at Diggory now, and again Diggory gave him the look of a bored god. But he had spent too much time around Lucius, enough time to pick up one of his mannerisms. A muscle in the corner of his eye was twitching wildly, the way it often did in Lucius's when he was agitated about something and dared not show it. Draco gave him an abstracted smile and continued speaking.

"She used Memory Charms and Legilimency on me, so that, whilst I knew she had done _something _to me, I could not remember what it was. My mind as well as my body was raped. She had a great fetish for uncertainty, and she put on me spells that would affect my heart or cause me pain if I performed certain activities—and then did not tell me about them, so it was clear I could die at any moment."

"If she used Memory Charms and did not tell you about these spells, how is it that you remember them?" demanded a witch with a face like an old apple.

Draco eyed her with quiet scorn. "She returned all my memories to me at once when she kidnapped me, whilst Harry was dealing with the threat of Cordelia Nott," he replied. "I suddenly learned I had been raped with a knife—" He paused. His voice shook, and the grip of Harry's hand on his tightened. Harry leaned into his field of vision, and Draco saw that he was shaking his head slightly. He didn't want Draco to speak of these memories, even to save him, if doing so would hurt him.

But Draco had lived long enough with this poison lying in the back of his mind, emerging in nightmares the past few days when he had not had Harry around to soothe him. He had barely had time to focus on healing, given the busyness of Harry's trial and the preparations to counter Diggory, but he knew the memories would return with a vengeance the moment he relaxed. He didn't want that. This was hardly the arena for confession he would have chosen—he had imagined murmuring the truth to Harry as they lay in bed together, with Harry still inside him and his body still tingling from _pleasant _sex—but it was the one he had.

"I suddenly learned I had been raped with a knife," he continued, "and that she had been inside my head, _deleting _some of my memories." Not even the distance the Veritaserum imposed between the truth and the speaker could help him now, and he realized he was trembling in every limb like a colt forced away from its mother's side too soon. Harry stroked his arm. Draco closed his eyes and concentrated on the thought of Harry as he had looked when he broke into Daphne's house, strong and fierce and utterly devoted to Draco. "I will never be rid of the taint of her, anymore than someone who is raped can simply overcome the rape. She used pain spells that should have left me wrecked and out of my senses, drooling—but she caught my falling mind each time, brought me back to consciousness, healed me, and then began the pain once more. She broke my fingers by bending them backwards and then warped the bones so they would set wrong, then broke them again and set them again. My hands are my livelihood, and I could have suffered permanent effects from that. She left a few gaping holes in the middle of my memories, so that in the middle of recalling a conversation or party I was part of some years ago, suddenly there are faces I would not know if I saw them today and words I cannot remember. She ransacked my life, inside and out. And she would not have stopped her torture no matter what. Harry was right to take her magic. She tortured me with magic, made hers into an instrument of harm that could not be surmounted any other way."

There was silence when he finished. Draco did not care to open his eyes and look at the expressions of pity or disgust on their faces. He concentrated instead on the calluses on the inside of Harry's fingers, running his own fingers up and down them. Strange calluses, he thought. Harry's work had been making wizarding cameras and film, not flying, for the past seven years. Could he really have retained calluses from flying a broom all this time?

"And you expect us to believe that the Veritaserum was untainted after all?" one of the Wizengamot members demanded.

Draco flinched, but Shacklebolt said at once, "If you believe that, Eleanor, your quarrel is with the Ministry's brewing team and not with Mr. Malfoy. Do you believe that Veritaserum did not work? What reason do you have for doing so?"

Draco opened his eyes in time to see the insufferable woman with the apple face flush bright pink. At the same moment, another woman leaned forwards and said in a voice like the peacock Patronus's, "Oh, dear, Eleanor. I think your nephew works for the Ministry's Potions committee, or the one of the sub-committees. I never thought I would see the day when you chose political loyalty before family loyalty."

Eleanor began to splutter. Draco gave an iron smile, and then stepped aside, letting Granger gesture Littlesmith forwards.

Harry took the moment of confusion whilst Littlesmith was moving to lean up and whisper into Draco's ear, "There is no braver thing you could have done, and I know it."

The depth of love in those few words was one that Draco had never heard in his parents' brief compliments to him, which had once been his standard for intense emotion packed into a small space. He felt a sharp thrill travel through him, and he leaned his head on Harry's shoulder for the brief time he felt he could.

He was in love, and it was not the terrifying experience his father had always told him it would be.

* * *

Harry didn't listen to much of Hunter Littlesmith's testimony, though if he had to he could have recited the most important part of it back. The man was only confirming that Daphne Greengrass had been abusive to her lovers, in any case. The spells she had used on him had been different from most of the specific ones she used on Draco, but the wider range was a good thing; it would confirm the picture of Daphne as cruel and ruthless, or so Hermione had explained it to him.

But he was more concerned with Draco just at the moment.

Harry knew he could not have stood up in front of a group of strangers and talked about the most humiliating moments of his life. A few months ago, his potion might have given him the courage to do it, but even that would not have increased his willingness. Draco had brought himself here by his own will and determined to do what he thought was the right thing even before he took the Veritaserum.

Harry wanted to take him from the courtroom in his arms and make love to him slowly, gently, and then hide him in a curtained bed away from the world, which they would never have to leave again if Draco didn't want to.

And since they were in public and still in front of that group of hostile strangers, there was so little he could do. He stroked Draco's arm and hair and kissed his knuckles once when Littlesmith came to a particularly dramatic part of his story and Harry thought everyone's attention was on him instead of Draco. Draco gave a trembling little sigh and leaned nearer, seeking comfort.

Littlesmith's testimony ended at last, and Kingsley spoke without a pause for breath. "Mr. Potter, do you agree that these witnesses have spoken the truth? Was Daphne Greengrass violent enough that she needed to have her magic removed in order to force her to stop hurting others?"

"I believe she was," Harry said. "Certainly I never believed that she would stop. I offered her the chance because I am, at heart, someone who wishes to believe good of everyone—even my enemies." He glanced at Diggory, who regarded him with heavily-lidded cat-eyes. Harry wondered if he had no tricks left and was simply trying to endure the inevitable fall with dignity. "But she would not, and she had just tortured—as you heard described—the man I'm in love with." Draco's fingers tightened on his briefly, convulsively. "So I swallowed her magic."

"What conditions are necessary for you to swallow magic?" demanded Prunella. "Could you do it to anyone in this room?"

"Not likely," said Harry, "except one man, and even then he would have to make a move threatening Draco." He looked at Diggory, and didn't care who watched him doing it. This was a day of bold gestures. He would make what he could of them whilst he held the Wizengamot's attention. "I need intense rage to drive my desire to take magic in the first place; I cannot simply strike out with wandless magic. I need the conviction that someone I love is in immediate danger, which means that I would not lash out because someone made a threatening gesture towards Draco in jest."

Hermione drew her wand and took a little step towards Draco. Harry watched her calmly. They hadn't discussed that, but he knew Hermione and understood what she was about at once. Hermione put away her wand and bowed to the Wizengamot.

"And I need intense emotions of other kinds," Harry finished. "Lust, for example—"

"An incubus!" said Williams loudly. "Just as Mr. Diggory suggested."

"The lust is useless without the rage," Harry said patiently. "Or I would have taken my lovers' magic. You can ask Susan Bones and many other women I dated whether they ceased to be witches once they lived with me."

"There was some talk, as I understand it," said a wizard further back in the ranks of the Wizengamot, "about your nearly having drained the magic of someone else. A Miss Ginny Weasley?"

"I nearly did, to my shame," Harry said. If they produced Ginny now, he didn't know if he would be able to look her in the eye, but he knew he would speak on to the end. There could be no other fitting return to Draco's bravery and his sacrifice. "I was again feeling the combination of lust, jealousy, and rage, on a night when I thought it extremely probable that I should lose Miss Weasley to another lover."

"That is also a trait of an incubus," Diggory murmured.

"As you've utterly failed to prove my incubus blood despite having several chances without the Minister in the room, I don't think that I need to listen to you," Harry told him, as pleasantly as possible, and then resumed his story. "I nearly did take her magic. I was so horrified I brewed a potion that would keep me from feeling those emotions again, so it would not happen once more."

"And why did the potion not hold you back?" demanded Williams.

"Because the potion is a variant of Desire," Harry said. "When my greatest desire changed, the effect of the potion changed as well. I began to desire to protect Draco instead of to suppress my emotions, and so that strengthened my wandless magic. That is another reason that Daphne Greengrass lost her power. I entered with my rage and my magic strengthened because of what she had done to Draco. And if you are about to object that I should have managed to restrain myself even then, I beg you to think again of Draco's testimony. Would you have stood by when someone was torturing your husband or your lover in such a way?"

Williams subsided, looking sulky. Someone else asked, "And are you still on the potion, Mr. Potter?"

Harry shook his head. "I considered that I had achieved my desires. Draco was safe, and I had no need of extraordinary magic to protect him. Besides, it was _his _desire that I get rid of the potion and see if I could live without it. I did so." He looked up at Draco, who was looking down at him with brilliant eyes. "There is nothing I would not do for him, as I believe I've already made clear."

They threw a few more questions at him, but nothing else hard to answer, and no one had thought to go for Ginny. Then Willowberry stepped forwards and spoke a few simple sentences about his conviction that Harry had no creature heritage at all. He said he had "tested" him, but not how, and everyone else assumed he had used Veritaserum, since he also spoke of feeling a need to distance himself from the case after he made a mistake. Harry smiled at his back. He had no problem sharing a secret with the man.

Diggory began to speak. "Of course that is all very interesting, but I can provide irrefutable evidence of Mr. Potter's incubus heritage—"

"And why should the Wizengamot accept that, when we have Pensieve memories of your attacking Draco Malfoy, and thus of your mindless enmity towards both Harry and his lover?" Hermione asked, stepping forwards with the Pensieve Draco had surrendered to her. "Appearing with a group of wizards, no less, and ordering them to curse him because he took a step towards you?"

Harry was watching Diggory this time. He saw the man's eyes close, as if, for just a moment, the lids had become too heavy to lift.

_I hope he saw his defeat, _Harry thought viciously, as Hermione began to hand the memories around to those of the Wizengamot who wanted to see them.


	21. Truth and Falsehood

Thank you again for all the reviews!

_Chapter Twenty-One—Truth and Falsehood_

Watching the faces of the members of the Wizengamot made up for his own humiliating confession earlier, if only a little. Draco watched as person after person turned pale and shoved the Pensieve away when they'd finished looking at the memories of Diggory's attack, as though merely having witnessed the recording would taint them. After looking at it, they avoided all eye contact with Diggory.

_They could have done that earlier, and it might actually have had some effect, _Draco thought, looking at Diggory, because he often let his eyes rest on things no one else wanted to confront. The man had a permanent pallor to his face now that he seemed unable to shed, but he still turned his head with slow movements and watched everyone with bright, bored eyes, as if he had all the time in the world. _He won't admit defeat, and that could convince a few people he's still in the right and they should follow him._

Draco would not allow that to happen. If he had been forced to face his point of greatest weakness in the company of these people, with only the comfort of Harry's grip on his hand, then Diggory should be forced to do the same.

"Sirs and madams," he said, when the Pensieve had reached Shacklebolt again and been passed with all due ceremony down to Granger, "you have seen Diggory's nearly ungovernable enmity towards myself, simply because I had the courage to defy him, and because I was attached to Harry Potter, who also defied him. He tried to bribe me with a position in the Ministry. He spoke words that can easily be taken as threats to our sitting Minister. And then he attacked me with the guards that he could hardly have needed, if he were simply going out in public. He brought those guards to the shop with the intention of using them against _me_. Why? What on earth could I have done that would make him fear me so much? I am not politically connected. My name is rather more one in disgrace than otherwise. The Desire potion was a neutral factor introduced into play after Diggory had made his first overture to Harry, not before. Why was he so determined to stop me from brewing?"

"That is a reasonable question," said the woman with a voice like the peacock Patronus's. "The attack I have just seen has shaken me, and inspired me with curiosity as to the source of Mr. Diggory's loathing."

Draco concealed a smirk. If Diggory's allies could use specious words to make themselves sound more emotionally affected than they really were, surely their own friends could do the same thing.

"I am afraid that my arguments are too complex—" Diggory began, sounding apologetic.

"You have most of the finest political minds in wizarding Britain in the same room with you, sir," Shacklebolt interrupted, the polite title full of venom. "If we cannot understand your arguments, then there is no one on this island who can."

Draco concealed a snort; it wouldn't do to reveal what he thought of those "finest minds" too openly. But Diggory merely gave them all a polite bow and the same bright look as before.

"Some of my arguments involve closely guarded details of my campaign strategy," he said. "I think you'll understand my reluctance to reveal them in front of my opponent." He was looking directly at Shacklebolt now, with an expression of eloquent sorrow on his face, as though he regretted they should ever have been enemies. "They can have nothing directly to do with the crime under discussion, in any case. You seem to be on the brink of deciding that Mr. Potter has no magical creature blood after all, and that the charges were brought wrongly. If such is the case, I am content, and will not press such charges. But this is not a trial for _me._"

Draco snarled under his breath. He understood why Diggory refused to look disheartened now. He might have to give up his fight against Harry, Draco, and the Desire potion, but he still had what he really wanted: a shot at the Minister's office. If word of his conduct here today didn't escape the courtroom—and the Wizengamot didn't, in general, discuss the details of such cases in closed trials—then the worst anyone would ever know was that he'd suffered a legal defeat. He could endure that and come out the other side with his reputation still whole, even strengthened by the impression that he wasn't afraid to prosecute Britain's greatest hero if the safety of Britain seemed to require it.

"He's right," said the witch with a face like an apple who was one of Diggory's decided allies. Draco thought that the other witch had called her Eleanor Williams. "He cannot be tried for any crime, as he did not succeed in hurting Mr. Malfoy, and this is not his trial. To question him now is inappropriate."

"I don't find it inappropriate to ask why a man running for Minister would resort to bribery, threats, and physical force," said Shacklebolt. "Understand, I do not take the threats against myself very seriously." Diggory lifted his face then, and Draco thought he saw the impression of harsh hatred carved on it. Shacklebolt went on with a faint smile. He'd probably only wanted a reaction from Diggory to his pronouncement, any reaction. "But I would be interested in the answer to the question nonetheless."

Diggory appeared to be having a leisurely debate within himself as to whether he should answer. Draco concealed another snarl. They would not put _him_ under Veritaserum, of course. He was going to recover from what Draco had hoped would be his ultimate fall. Just when it should have been overwhelming, the worst effects from his obsession with condemning Harry and Draco had been turned aside. He—

Harry squeezed his hand. Draco looked down at him in surprise, thinking he might, himself, have been squeezing Harry's wrist too hard. But Harry shook his head and grinned at him narrowly, and then tilted his head as if he wanted Draco to scratch the back of his neck.

A brilliant gleam shone just under his hair, as if he were wearing jewelry from an admirer. Draco concealed his jealousy, and leaned over to look. The gleam turned, and he realized it was a beetle crouching there.

A beetle with spectacle markings around the antennae, a beetle he had once cupped in his hands and whispered secrets to.

Savage joy nearly lifted Draco from his feet. He squeezed Harry's hand in response and motioned for him to lean his head back, so there was no chance of anyone catching a glimpse of Skeeter. He smiled at Diggory, trying to give the impression that the smile hid anger. It didn't matter if the bastard got away with denying their accusations inside the courtroom. He _would _fall, and the tumble might be the more devastating for his believing, for a day, he'd got away with everything.

But Draco had forgotten there was another person in the courtroom with them, one who didn't know of Skeeter's presence and who didn't have Shacklebolt's sense of fairness and restored confidence in his own political prowess. Someone who might not have been content to wait even if she had known all those things.

Granger's wand moved in a tiny motion, up and down, then out to both sides. Her lips didn't release any words, but her eyes burned with the force of will Draco was accustomed to seeing applied to nonverbal magic. She had twisted her lips into a bitter grimace as if to keep from biting on them. Any stranger looking at her would probably think she beheld Diggory's escape and couldn't make her peace with it.

A wiser one would have recognized that expression from when she stood above the helpless Theodore Nott and spoke of downing him with a unique curse.

And Draco revised his assumptions again. _Of course, if we can destroy Diggory going and coming, that will be even better._

* * *

Harry looked straight at Diggory after he showed Skeeter's presence to Draco, and never looked away. He really didn't care if the man spun some pretty story to account for his enmity now that the Wizengamot would have to accept. He didn't care if Diggory managed to speak without Veritaserum, though he knew Draco might feel differently. They would win in the end. Skeeter would tear Diggory to pieces without lifting a hand against him.

There was a sublime elegance about that solution. Harry wondered idly if various Slytherins of his acquaintance would approve of it.

Thus he saw the sudden, odd change in the man's face. He put a hand up to his brow and swallowed once, as though he had a headache. When he dropped the hand, he was flushed and beginning to sweat.

"Need we call off this confession on account of illness?" Williams offered at once.

"I agree," said Prunella. "Mr. Diggory is looking rather ill. Perhaps we should convene at a later time—or Mr. Diggory can explain in private to Minister Shacklebolt, since his words appear to concern him alone."

"I'm fine," Diggory said in a loud, hoarse voice, and took a step forwards. Harry was reminded forcibly of how Cedric had looked when he heard about the First Task being dragons. Diggory had the same fixed stare and slapped expression. "I have much to say, and now may be the only chance I have to say it."

"Then, by all means, speak," said Kingsley. He sounded doubtful. Harry gave him a curious glance, wondering if he knew what had happened to Diggory, but Kingsley caught his eye and shook his head minutely.

Diggory swung towards Harry. Harry blinked in surprise when he suddenly lifted an arm and pointed his finger straight at him. This was definitely uncharacteristic behavior. He felt the light tickle as Skeeter edged out from under his hair to see, and Draco's hand tightened on his shoulder as if he thought to haul Harry out of danger.

"No matter what you wish to accomplish in the politics of wizarding Britain," Diggory snarled, his voice sounding as if it were dragged out of his throat on fishhooks, "you can't do it without reference to the name of Harry Potter. The first thing everyone began asking me when I decided to run for Minister was if I had your support. It was known you were close friends with Shacklebolt, and that's already been enough to keep him in office through one election. You would not _believe _how many cowards I met who were unwilling to support me because they thought you'd only need to appear in public at one Ministry function and all the votes would swing to Shacklebolt in any case." He laughed, a noise like a mouse skittering across glass.

From the way Prunella and Williams flushed, Harry thought he could reckon who some of the "cowards" were.

"And so I studied him, and then tried to court him." Diggory came another step closer to Harry. This time, Draco definitely tensed as if he would step between them, but didn't, to Harry's gratitude. He was fascinated, and wanted the strange confession to play out to its end. "That was a mistake. It was only too obvious that he wasn't used to being courted. He'd show up in public for one day when his friends wanted him to, and that was the extent of his experience. Everyone told me that he remained in reserve like a powerful weapon. But _that's _not true! He remains in reserve because he has no ambition, no desire, no _reason _to be a public man." He sneered. "The Harry Potter I met was different from the one my friends had portrayed to me with such fear. I would have done better to give up then and there."

"Yes," Draco whispered so that his words just stirred Harry's hair, "he would have."

"But he was so naïve. He actually thought I would go away when he didn't surrender to my first plea! I believed I might be able to mold him, carve him, bear him along in the current. If he really didn't know anything about politics, he wouldn't recognize the ends to which I was trying to bend him, either."

Prunella and Williams shuffled their chairs discreetly away from the railing of the gallery.

"I continued to think that, even when I had evidence otherwise," Diggory continued, voice so full of spite that Harry was surprised it didn't cling to his lips in brown flecks. "And there were other reasons to court him, namely the temptation represented by his Muggleborn friend, widely accounted clever and a war heroine. If she would serve my campaign, I would have broad appeal on both sides of the blood divide. When I found out Draco Malfoy was working with Potter to produce a potion that could affect the desires and personalities of the drinkers, I thought my life complete. Only make them come to my side, and I would win the election easily.

"But they showed no inclination to attend me." Diggory spat on the floor of the courtroom. A silence that sounded like that right before a clap of thunder descended over the Wizengamot. Harry thought later that might have been the very point when Diggory tilted too far and lost any chance of recovering from his fall. "And then I began to realize what a potent combination they might be if they, annoyed at me, threw all their weight behind the re-election of Shacklebolt. I could not let that happen. I had to destroy them if at all possible.

"And yet, no matter what I did, they stood up under it and _returned._ Like bloody cockroaches." Harry felt Skeeter stir on the back of his neck, and wondered if Diggory would be castigated for using "insulting language" in the article she would write tomorrow. "I grew more and more determined to destroy them, because their very tenacity would make them more dangerous to me and more helpful to Shacklebolt. Some of the words Potter spoke even made me think he might be running for Minister himself. Of course the mind-altering potion they produced would be helpful in that."

"I never desired to be Minister," Harry said, startled into speech. "And the Desire potion works by the wishes of those who drink it. I can't control what happens when they swallow it, and nor can Draco. We can't even sense if they've drunk it—"

"It's what anyone would do, Potter," Diggory cut him off impatiently, and then laughed. "Of course, I forgot how politically _ignorant _you are. Advantages that anyone else would use, you allow to pass you by, because you can't comprehend the good of them.

"Well, I can! And it became more and more evident that I couldn't allow this potentially powerful combination of political forces to exist, not when it could be used against me.

"Do you wonder why I was so determined to destroy you, Potter? Because you could have changed the balance of the election simply by sitting at home. Sympathy was growing for you when you began to distribute the Desire potion. People thought you were doing a good deed. Some of them talked of voting for you even if you wouldn't run in the election. I've never had that kind of popular support. My appeal is to the more _erudite._"

His voice grew so bitter on the last word that Harry could no longer doubt what drove him. "Jealous?" he breathed. "You were jealous of me?"

"Of what you have without being conscious of it," Diggory snapped at him, leaning far enough towards him that Harry felt spittle fleck his face. Skeeter scurried around the other side of his head to be out of range. "Of the power that you command without making a motion. Of the _fame _that was piled on you—"

"I never asked for it!" Harry snapped. "And I've tried to explain that my mother deserves the credit for her sacrifice that protected me from the Killing Curse, but—"

"_That makes it worse!_" Diggory roared, and Harry had never known he had veins in the side of his head that could stand out so far. "It makes it worse that you didn't want it, never worked for it, and would hide modestly away in your flat for the rest of your life rather than face it! You don't have the power to give it away, and it clings to you like a shining halo! Everyone will be dealing with the legacy of your actions long after you're dead, and your name will be in the history books, and they'll name buildings after you, and claim that Harry Potter visited a certain place on such and such a date, and—" He was shaking, his jaw clenched, his hands opening and closing as if he wanted to torture Harry but didn't know whether to go for his shirt or his throat first.

"You've achieved everything I've ever wanted," he whispered. "To leave an indelible mark on the world. To do it so _young_, and without the help of your parents. To be able to say honestly that you've never taken presents from anyone to serve their ends. You have what I want, and I can't have it, and _I hate you._"

Harry leaned back in his chair, staring. If he'd had the presence of mind to do so, he might have laughed, really. Diggory sounded like an overgrown schoolboy version of Draco, who had craved what Harry had—though in his case it was because his parents had impressed him with that deep pride and steadfast belief in himself, and he was half-crazed to find that Harry challenged his beliefs so easily.

On the other hand, he couldn't laugh when this man had nearly taken away his freedom, nearly destroyed Draco's business, and contributed to attacks on Draco's sanity and life. Level-voiced, Harry said, "Listen to yourself, Diggory. Does one thing you're saying sound like an excuse?"

"It's not an excuse," Diggory snapped back. "What excuse can there be for an obsession, especially in politics? And when I started losing, that only made it grow worse. I hated Desire without ever having tasted it, because you brewed it. I hated Draco Malfoy because your effortless and incredible luck touched him as well." His eyes flickered at Draco in a way that made Harry's hand long to reach for the wand that wasn't there. "I hated Granger because you gave her the kind of support that I could have used in my campaign And I hated Shacklebolt the worse because I knew you would act for him without thought. How could you do that?" he demanded suddenly, widening his eyes at Harry and giving him a look that was almost plaintive. "You haven't seen how much of a coward your _friend _has become in the past few years—how he's almost run the wizarding world into the ground—"

"I didn't really notice," Harry said coolly. "As you put it yourself so eloquently, I've lived rather retired from politics."

"But you could have supported me, and not him," Diggory said. "You would have, if you knew what you were doing. If you had any concern for the future of the wizarding world as it is now, and not the way you think it should be just because he's your friend."

Harry raised an eyebrow. "You never explained it to me. You never approached me like this, with legitimate concerns about Shacklebolt's Ministry. You tried to court me, and even when you saw that it didn't work, you couldn't give it up."

"It's the way politics is played," Diggory said, with vast weariness. "It's the way things _have _to work. The way I was trained in, and the only way I can play it without going back to the beginning and learning all over again."

"You sound quite self-aware now," Harry couldn't resist telling him. "What's changed? Did you finally realize you weren't going to win anyway, so you decided to confess?"

And Diggory's face changed back.

He staggered away from Harry, one hand over his mouth, as though he were about to vomit. Then he turned and scanned the gallery frantically. He was looking for friends, Harry thought, but all he found were carefully averted eyes.

Harry had no doubt then that his confession had been the result of magic. He'd once heard of a spell that would remove the inhibitions a wizard might experience and cause him to pour forth his frustrations and difficulties to the person he most wanted to hear about them—until that person pointed out he was doing so. It wasn't as good as a truth potion like Veritaserum, but very nearly as good.

His eyes narrowed suddenly. _Hermione _had been the one to tell him about that spell. If she hadn't actually invented it.

He would have turned to look at her, but Diggory was saying in a strong, carrying voice, "Minister, I would beg to be excused everything I have said in the last ten minutes. I was not myself, and if you check me and the other wands in the room, I'm sure you'll find the lingering presence of hostile magic."

Harry waited in silent tension as Shacklebolt obliged him, casting _Prior Incantato _on the wands of the Wizengamot, and then having Firstfruits do it to his wand. That done, he came to the floor and tested Hermione's and Draco's wands. Both of them showed the same results: the Summoning Charm, used to keep the heavy Pensieve from slipping.

Hermione, of course, would have had the chance to cast that spell to cover the results of whatever incantation she'd used on Diggory. Everyone had been staring, or trying not to stare, at Diggory; no one had been paying attention to her.

Harry narrowed his eyes at her the moment he got the chance. She returned an innocent look. Harry half-growled under his breath. He supposed it was his fault for not showing Skeeter to her, and since this was not Diggory's trial, the confession could have no legal consequences for him. It would only have social ones.

Hermione slipped him a quick wink and smile, then went absolutely blank again as Diggory suddenly shouted, "It was Potter and his wandless magic! It must have been."

* * *

Draco was tired of this.

Diggory, from what he understood, had made some ridiculous claims about incubus blood in Harry's family. He had also made that confession, but Draco had found most of it tedious. The vices of small minds always were. He deserved more than Granger's spell for what he had done. On the other hand, the public embarrassment in the newspapers tomorrow might be enough revenge.

"Minister," he said impatiently, "from what I understand Diggory has claimed, Harry is able to use his wandless magic because of incubus blood. But are there implements of lust here? Was Harry enraged? The answer to both questions is no. What will he claim now, his new truth or his old one?"

Diggory stared at him, teeth and eyes aglitter with hatred. Draco looked back, unimpressed. _We've drawn your real fangs, old lion, and we drew the first when Harry and Hermione got rid of Cordelia Nott._

"Mr. Diggory?" Shacklebolt asked politely.

Diggory said nothing, but turned away.

Shacklebolt faced the Wizengamot and called for a vote. Numerous hands rose to claim Harry as not guilty. Standing so close, Draco felt Harry slump briefly to the side and then straighten with a grim smile on his face.

Draco snatched him out of the chair and kissed him. Harry wrapped his arms around him in response and moaned freely, letting Draco know what was going to happen as soon as they got back to Harry's flat.

Diggory said something about lust being in the air now, but no one paid attention.


	22. The Profits of Love

Thank you again for all the reviews!

_Chapter Twenty-Two—The Profits of Love_

"What will happen to my mother?"

Harry marveled that Draco could ask the question without emotion in his voice. God knew he wouldn't have been able to do that if it were Lily in prison. Of course, he would have hoped that Lily Potter would never be involved in something like this, but who knew what his parents would have been like if they had lived?

They were standing in the middle of the Minister's office, facing Kingsley's desk. Kingsley sat behind it, looking tired and toying with a quill as if he wished he would have no heavier occupation than that for the next hour. Harry stood with his arm slung around Draco's shoulders, whilst Hermione hovered behind them, proud as proud. Harry doubted she would feel that way if he'd chosen to reveal the spell she cast on Diggory to the Minister, but he didn't particularly want to make Hermione angry at him or add to Kingsley's burdens.

_Well, all right, _he admitted in the privacy of his own head. _I _really _don't want to spend more time dealing with Diggory and the consequences of his actions than we have to. Hermione didn't pull a false confession from him, and he won't go to jail for it. That's as much compassion as I can spare for him._

"She'll be tried, Mr. Malfoy," Kingsley said quietly. "For use of Dark magic and illegal entry into the Ministry." He looked up, his eyes moving back and forth between the two of them before he spoke again. "It's likely that both of you will be called as witnesses in the trial. Harry, you'll need to describe your experiences, and Mr. Malfoy, you'll need to corroborate the testimony you gave me of your mother's magical skills."

Harry nodded. He thought he could face the trial, particularly if it was in a few days. Right now, he just wanted to go home and _show _Draco how much he loved and admired him, something he'd had no opportunity to do in the past week.

"Thank you," Draco said, voice still flat, and turned towards the door. He stumbled on the way there, as though there was a slight imperfection in the wood under his feet. Neither Hermione nor Kingsley would have noticed, most probably, but Harry did, and he understood what it meant. Draco was tired, pushed almost beyond his strength. He needed someone to comfort and take care of him.

He wouldn't thank Harry for scooping him up in his arms and carrying him out the door, however. There was a difference between needing comfort and looking weak in front of an audience. Harry squeezed his shoulder with his arm instead and looked properly sympathetic when Draco glanced at him. A moment later, and Draco's lips lifted into a weak smile.

Hermione accompanied them to the doors of the Ministry, providing an effective guard against the people who might have stopped Harry and tried to speak to him. Shortly after they passed through the doors, Skeeter climbed out of Harry's hair and flew off with a faint buzzing noise. Hermione looked around suspiciously, but then relaxed, evidently satisfied that the noise wasn't a curse coming at their backs.

Harry debated telling her for a moment, then shook his head. No, he didn't think he would. She had sprung the spell upon Diggory as a surprise. She could deal with Skeeter's article as a surprise.

He spent a short space of time imagining how Diggory would deal with it. He was likely to figure out what had happened, but he couldn't do anything about it; Skeeter had registered as a legal Animagus some time after Hermione first blackmailed her. And the Wizengamot had performed an illegal act in any case, trying to close the trial to anyone but themselves and Harry. Diggory deserved every ounce of pain and embarrassment that would come out of Skeeter's report.

"I'll see you later, I suspect," Hermione said, her eyes moving knowingly back and forth between Harry and Draco. "You look like you want to snog the life out of each other or speak dozens of sentimental words, and I'd just as soon not be present for either." She took a step backwards. "I've got to tell Millicent when she missed in any case. She's going to be _furious _we didn't have time to firecall her."

She Apparated before Harry could argue. He rolled his eyes and looked at Draco, who was leaning more heavily on him now, his lashes fluttering.

"Come on," he whispered. "Let's go home."

From the faint smile Draco gave in response, he didn't even object to Harry calling his flat a home belonging to both of them, the way he once might have.

* * *

Draco woke slowly, and more deliciously than he had known he _could _wake up without having consumed a Bliss Potion the night before. A Bliss Potion gave a general feeling of well-being, and lasted until the memories reappeared. This time, he opened his eyes and rolled over, stared at the ceiling, and didn't flinch even when the memories spread vicious claws through the middle of his brain. He was wrapped in a pair of warm arms, and he'd had no nightmares. The bed seemed softer than normal, too.

Of course, when he rolled his head to the side, he discovered that he was lying partially on Harry's chest and legs, cradled as if Harry didn't trust the bed alone to keep him safe. Harry had his head tilted back, probably to avoid Draco's smothering him. He snored through an open mouth and nostrils that actually fluttered. Draco felt a smile tug irresistibly at his lips, and leaned forwards to kiss him.

Harry kissed back for long moments before he properly awakened, his tongue poking lazily at Draco's, his lips fluttering up and down like his nostrils. Then he opened his eyes and smiled, his hand rising to lock in Draco's hair. His face was still flushed and soft with sleep, and Draco found he barely minded the taste of morning breath. The kiss remained sloppy, lazy, warm, and Draco pulled himself a little closer so he could have still more of it without thinking beyond that. Snogging could come later.

Harry murmured at last, pulling his head away, "Hmmm. I should brush my teeth so we can do this properly."

It was ridiculous, Draco told himself, that the small and simple word _we _could create such a tightening in his chest. Daphne had never said anything like that to him, true, but Daphne had never done many things. He splayed his hand possessively flat across Harry's chest. "I don't think we need to move," he whispered. "Are you a wizard or not?"

Harry looked momentarily startled. Then he laughed. Draco grinned up at him. He couldn't remember the last time he'd shared laughter in bed with someone who wasn't Harry.

Harry rolled over enough to grasp his wand and murmured a _Scourgify_, wincing as the spell stung his lips. Draco rolled his eyes. "I'm not stupid enough to use magic meant for cleaning vomit off clothes on my mouth," he said. "Here." He took Harry's wand, noting absently the welcoming tingle from the holly wood—it was doubtless because he was madly in love with its owner—and held it towards his mouth. A moment later, a layer of dust and morning gum flew away from his teeth.

"You cheated," Harry objected, his brow furrowed. "You didn't say the spell aloud so I could learn it."

Draco dropped the wand on the bedside table where Harry used to place his meals when he was recovering from the collapse of his shop and tugged him closer with a hand behind his neck. "It's my evil plan," he said. "As long as you don't know that spell, you'll have to come to me to clean your mouth out, and that means you'll stay with me forever and ever."

"You only need to be you to make me want to do that."

_Malfoys, _Draco told himself, _do not cry over sickly sweet sentimental statements. _There were a few elements of his parents' training that he didn't intend to abandon. He leaned his head on Harry's shoulder and muttered, "Careful. Anyone who heard that might tell the entire world you're in love."

"Why would I worry about someone telling the entire world the truth?"

Draco nipped the side of Harry's neck in response, and Harry's whisper broke into a groan. He tilted his head, his eyes vague and glazed, and said, "Again. Oh—again." As Draco obliged him, his voice broke into a shuddering cry. "_Draco!_ What did you touch—oh, God, that feels _so good—_"

At least he wouldn't be the only one receiving surprises and new sensations from this love affair, then, Draco thought smugly. He spent a moment sucking fiercely at the side of Harry's neck, then moved down to his collarbone. Harry arched off the bed as Draco sucked again, crying out with wonder.

"I didn't know I had a sensitive neck," he muttered, when Draco released him and sat back smugly to observe his reaction. "No one else ever made me think I did."

"Well, you do," Draco said firmly, and leaned down to scrape his teeth over Harry's shoulder. Both of them had fallen asleep in their robes from yesterday, and he was already finding that inconvenient for a variety of reasons. He kept his mouth busy on Harry's shoulder whilst he fumbled after Harry's wand again. At last he grasped it and managed to flick it in the proper motion; their clothes undid themselves and flew to the far side of the room. Other than a mouthful of cloth when Harry's robe peeled upwards and Draco didn't manage to move his face in time, this process was entirely satisfactory. He dropped the wand on the table again and bent to continue biting and licking Harry's chest.

Harry surprised him by rolling on top of him and pinning him to the bed. "You were the one who risked and suffered yesterday," he whispered. "_I'm _the one who should be making _you_ feel good."

Draco swallowed and stroked the nape of his neck. "It's entirely mutual, Harry," he said. "Or, at least, it should be. Of course, if you're from a world where you can spoil me exclusively, far be it from me to challenge your customs." He let his limbs fall across the bed and smiled up at Harry.

* * *

Harry reached out a hand that trembled and ran it down Draco's cheek. He couldn't remember ever feeling this _tender _towards anyone else. His belly filled with warmth like tea and the only good use of his mouth was to kiss.

He did manage to say, "You can spoil me later," before he bent to kiss his way down Draco's chest, so Draco wouldn't think his words had been rejected.

Draco would just have to wait his turn, though, because once he began to use his mouth, Harry found it impossible to stop. He paused to suck every scar, every curve of muscle, every patch of skin that bore an interesting wrinkle or stretch mark. He compared the taste of sweat along Draco's ribs to the taste just above his navel, moving back and forth several times. Draco writhed and hissed and bent his head backwards until the curve of his neck looked as if it were taut with pain. Harry knew it couldn't be so, because Draco would have made some warning sound and he would have stopped at once.

He laid his cheek on Draco's inner thigh and regarded his erection with calculating eyes. Draco was squirming as much from the proximity of Harry's tongue and lips as anything else now, and his cock bobbed back and forth, an extreme pink with the flush of blood. Harry had forgotten how pale he was.

Of course, he'd last sucked Draco's cock more than a week ago. All sorts of things could happen in that time, and Harry was determined to renew all his memories.

"Would you like me to touch you?" he whispered. "How?" He was determined to do what Daphne had never done, and give Draco a choice.

Draco took some moments to recover his senses. Harry waited patiently, one hand tracing patterns across the leg on which his head rested. Draco's legs tensed and trembled, and he sucked in a long breath, as if this question was the thing that would finally break him. Harry turned to look up at him and found him bracing himself on his elbows, his eyes so intent and so full of longing that his gaze hit Harry like a physical blow.

"I want you to use your mouth on me," Draco whispered, "the way you did once before, but more slowly."

Harry smiled at him and ran a hand over his knee for a moment before he bowed his head to do as he was told. His mouth was watering already, from nothing but the closeness and warmth of his partner.

* * *

Draco's head fell back on the pillows. He told himself he could relax, finally. Harry was free from prison and the danger of going to Azkaban. Diggory was defeated. They would be able to brew more Desire and have a successful potions business. Daphne, and the consequences of all she had done to him, stood a chance of moving out of his life at last. They were not completely gone, but—

For a moment, his thoughts scattered in a dozen different directions like a flock of startled birds as Harry mouthed him. And then he woke to a consciousness of sensation he'd never had before, not even the other time Harry sucked him. He'd been unable to concentrate on anything but the newness of the experience then; now he could actually tell and evaluate what Harry was doing.

Harry pushed him about with his tongue as if he'd never done this before, but eventually secured Draco's erection between his gums and cheek—amazingly without touching his teeth—and hummed. Draco thrust helplessly, the feeling so deep it almost tickled. Then Harry hummed again, swallowed around him, and shoved him back to the center of his mouth. Draco breathed shallowly, sweat breaking out like dew on his stomach and hips. He would surely choke Harry if he thrust as hard as he wanted to.

Harry let a hand wander down to his balls and back to his entrance, then lifted his head up entirely. Draco started to shout out a protest, but Harry whispered, "Go ahead. I don't mind," and began to suck him once more.

Draco lost track of time then. Dazzling golden and silver stars burst across his vision from squeezing his eyes too tightly. He thrust like an automaton for long moments, managed to regain control of himself for a single one, and then began again before he quite realized he had. So _good_. He'd lost the power to distinguish individual kinds of goodness from the rest. He was so sensitive that the thought of more heat, more wetness, than he'd already received was actively painful. He panted, his chest rising and falling so fast it added more pain, and the muscles in his legs locked. When he flexed them, he felt Harry's shoulders beneath them.

Then the spiral began, pleasure taking him closer and closer to his orgasm. Draco squirmed, fighting it as much as he could. He was half-sure he would crack when he got there. Could any human being bear this?

His thoughts scattered once more as he came. The pleasure whipped through his brain and tore apart some of the worse memories that had begun to rise, memories of Daphne doing this. Daphne's mouth was inhumanly perfect, and _could _carry the pleasure into pain. She would use her teeth without mercy, and had more than once caused Draco to think that she'd castrated him.

But _this­—_

The awful thoughts fled into the darkest corners of his mind and were quiet. At some point, Draco thought, he'd even manage to lift his head from the pillow and tell Harry that.

* * *

Harry coughed. Draco's orgasm had caught him by surprise. But he'd ridden the thrusting without gagging himself, and swallowed the semen without spitting it out, and pleased Draco without forcing him out of his mouth. Maybe he was getting the hang of what it meant to have sex with a man now.

He squirmed up Draco's belly and found him breathing deeply, peacefully. Harry blinked. Had he fallen asleep? Well, it was a compliment to his skills in some ways, but he would have to take care of his cock by himself then—a prospect that didn't sound as pleasant as having Draco do it for him.

A sudden grip on his cock made him startle back, but then he recognized the tightness and warmth of Draco's grip, and relaxed. He settled back above his boyfriend, smiling into Draco's lazy, barely-open eyes. "Want to bring me off?" he whispered, pressing his lips to the skin behind Draco's ear. "I can rub against your hip if your hand is getting tired." The angle was awkward for a wank, he had to admit.

"Um," Draco said, and squeezed his eyes shut, moving his free arm in a luxurious stretch. "No."

"To which?" Harry teased, and licked at a strand of Draco's hair. It tasted strange, feathery, but no worse than the semen.

"To both." Draco opened his eyes further, and now Harry saw that the dangerous gleam in them had been hidden by the lowered lids. "I want you inside me when you come. It's too long since I've had that from someone I loved and trusted instead of from the hands of someone I hated, and too long since it's been living flesh instead of steel." He shuddered and jerked his head to the side suddenly, as if to escape the impact of a blow.

"Do you want to do this?" Harry asked quietly. "I can leave the room and we can wait. You know that. You've already done something so courageous I'm having a hard time describing it as it deserves in my head. You don't have to—"

"The only way those memories will go away is if I create new ones to replace them," Draco said firmly. "But I don't want to let you do _all _the work." He shoved at Harry's shoulders and then at his hip, regrettably letting go of his cock to do so. "Here, lie back."

Harry complied, nervous and excited and wondering what was going to happen. He'd certainly fantasized about sex with blokes before; he'd even sneaked the odd book out of the material that Hermione had sent him when he first told her he was bisexual. But there was a world of difference between printed words on a page and a lover staring at him with flushed cheeks and hair hanging loose and a wand in his hand—

Harry started up, about to offer to do the magic, especially since he saw Draco was holding _his _wand. Draco gave him an indulgent look, and said, "Relax. Of the two of us, I'm the one who's done this before." He closed his eyes and tilted his head back, a slight frown of concentration marring the effect. Then he flicked the wand twice to the right and spoke what sounded like a mishmash of Latin words to Harry. He had never been good at picking up spells immediately, especially when he was concerned about his partner overdoing it.

_You're lying in your own bed worrying about Draco bloody Malfoy_, an incredulous part of his brain snapped. _Did you ever think you would be doing that? Did you ever have the slightest idea? _

No, he hadn't had the slightest idea, but he was doing it now, and he had become reconciled to it weeks ago, when he and Draco had used the mind-reading potion. Being surprised by it now was a bit childish.

The spell made Draco twitch as it touched him, and again Harry opened his mouth to inquire anxiously about his readiness for this. But Draco looked at him before he could speak, smiled, and shook his head. That made Harry fall silent and try to calm himself. Draco shifted and lifted his body to his heels in a squatting posture, and this time Harry could see a gleam of wetness around his arse that definitely hadn't been there before.

Draco aimed the wand at his cock this time. Harry shifted defensively before he could stop himself, then wondered if he should apologize. But Draco shook his head again, his eyes joyous. "Every bloke feels that way the first time," he said. "Especially when they're Muggle-raised innocents like you and have never even heard of wanking charms."

"You have a lot to teach me, I see," Harry said, and only shivered a little when a cool, shimmering liquid doused his cock. He reached down to smear the wetness around, but Draco had already lent his expertise to the process. Harry groaned as his hand smoothed up and down, swift and sure and back where it belonged.

"Good," Draco murmured. "It's already warming, isn't it?" Harry nodded, overwhelmed by the simple touch and hardly able to imagine what would happen when he was inside Draco's arse. "Good," Draco repeated, sounding slightly breathless, and then he was raising himself in the air again and sinking to straddle Harry's hips.

Harry shivered and strained upwards as Draco slowly took him inside, then clenched his hands into the sheets as he remembered that he stood a chance of hurting Draco if he did that. Draco chuckled, and that sound was even more breathy than his last word had been. He leaned forwards enough to sweep a quick kiss over Harry's brow.

"Almost there," he whispered. He paused, as if gauging time or distance, and then seated himself completely.

Harry thrust with a broken movement, and then Draco pushed him gently back into the blankets and kissed him again, on the mouth this time. Then he began to ride Harry, legs crooked so that their knees tapped occasionally, Harry could also feel Draco's arse bouncing off his thighs, and the fine, small hairs on the backs of his legs brushing against Harry's.

The strange sensations provided the perfect counterpoint to the tight, squeezing perfection of being inside someone else _male_, and prevented Harry from coming too soon. He struggled hard to lie flat and breathe shallowly, not as if he were running up a hill. Only when Draco whispered in some amusement, "You can push," did Harry realize he'd been clenching his teeth, refusing the kiss.

Harry kissed back and began to jerk his hips as best he could, fiercely. He reckoned it was the same sort of thing Draco had felt when Harry was sucking him, but _better_, because if anything could compare to this Harry didn't know what it was.

Then Draco began to whisper, and Harry knew things actually could get better, just as they could always get worse if he was in trouble.

"You'll—you'll b-burn what she did to me away." Draco had his head thrown back now, his neck forming one long arch with his chest, his hips making small circles. His cock rubbed against Harry's stomach, hard again. Harry reached down to stroke it, and Draco's eyes flew open, pinning him. "No matter how many t-times we have to do this, I'll r-recover, survive, and you'll-you'll help me—I _love _you—"

And Draco came, the only recognizable words in the stream of sound he uttered curses. Harry followed before he could even form thoughts about how close to the edge he was, panting out what he hoped was Draco's name. Draco tipped forwards like a toppling tree and came to rest with his nose pressed against Harry's neck.

They breathed noisily and stroked each other's necks and hair until Harry felt as if he could speak without stopping to gasp for breath every few seconds. "That was _brilliant_," he said.

"Yes, it was," Draco muttered. "And soon it will go beyond brilliant, and then higher. We'll never reach perfection, but I never intend to stop trying." He started to say something else, but a yawn interrupted him. "And I don't care what Diggory does now, because he'll never be able to stop _this._"

Harry wrapped his arms around Draco and held him. Draco was asleep moments later, his nose wrinkled and his mouth open, so that a small stream of drool escaped to touch the heel of Harry's palm.

Harry had no impulse to move.


	23. Rita's Article

Thanks again for all the reviews!

_Chapter Twenty-Three—Rita's Article_

Harry blinked as a loud thump sounded throughout his flat. He lifted his head, trying to figure out if it came from the front door or the fireplace, and the thump repeated itself. Then he realized Draco was lying beside him, twitching like a dog in a dream, and his arm was dangling almost all the way down to the floor. His hand was thumping his knuckles against the side of the bed. Harry stifled a chuckle and wrapped an arm around his shoulders so he wouldn't roll off the bed. Draco snorted and woke up.

"Why am I so stiff?" he muttered, passing a hand across his eyes. He stretched and winced, which had the effect of dissipating Harry's amusement at once.

"I'm so sorry," he murmured, cupping one hand around Draco's arse. "Are you all right? Did I hurt—"

"This is a good kind of soreness," Draco said, dropping his hands and giving him an incredulous look. "As you would know if you'd ever experienced it." Abruptly, he grinned, and the expression was so lustful that Harry felt his cock twitch in response. "That's right, I forgot you hadn't. I'll have to correct that soon." He sat back on his heels and raked his glance down Harry's body, as if he were imagining doing so just at that moment.

Harry would have agreed, but a true, separate thump, not a dreaming Draco, sounded from another room. Someone was knocking on the front door. Draco sighed, said, "Bother," with a martyred expression, and reached for Harry's wand again to Summon clothing for them.

Harry felt a soft tingle traveling through his bones when Draco used the wand, which he had been too busy to notice yesterday. He smiled, which made Draco raise an eyebrow. "And you think being caught naked is amusing?" he asked. "I'll have to remember to ask Granger what _exactly _you got up to with Weasley in your bedroom at Hogwarts."

"I was wondering what it felt like to you when I used your wand in our seventh year," Harry said, looking at the hawthorn wand lying on the other side of the room. "Or could you feel it at all? I took that wand from you, after all, and you're using mine with my permission."

Draco paused for a moment, then shrugged and continued casting. He already wore a white shirt that looked impeccable and would probably please the person who still pounded on the door, at least if that person was Hermione. "You can't sense the use of your own wand like this unless you're close to it," he said. "This one feels—friendly to me, as if it's happy to let me use it because I please you. And when you took my wand, it made me feel bereft."

Harry wrapped his arms around Draco and dragged him closer for an impulsive kiss. "I'm so sorry," he whispered again into his mouth. "I hope I'll never leave you feeling like that."

"Well," Draco said into his neck, "you also made me feel naked, and I certainly hope you'll help me feel like _that _again."

"Draco—"

"Harry." Draco sat back across his legs and shook his head. His hair, looking impossibly good when he'd spent last afternoon having sex and most of the night sprawled across Harry in various states of snoring and drool, clung around his ears for a moment and then feathered softly back. "Listen to me. What you did to me in the past is _nothing_, compared to the protection and healing you've tried to give me since Daphne kidnapped me. And even before that, when you gave me a home in your flat and helped me brew Desire. I have a partner I'm in love with now. Please don't spoil that with constant whinging about guilt. It makes you unattractive."

"One of you had better be _dying,_" Hermione's voice said from the front room, "to excuse how long it took you to answer the door."

Harry grinned, kissed Draco to show he understood, and then reached for the clothes still draped half across the bed.

* * *

"I still wish I could have seen it." Millicent was sitting on one of Harry's kitchen chairs, examining the cup of tea she held as if it might reveal visions of Harry's trial if she peered hard enough. "I didn't hate Diggory as I hate Lucius, but it's pleasant to watch anyone who's obstructed you flounder."

"Hmm," said Draco into his own cup. He knew Harry had not told Granger about Skeeter, which meant Millicent could not have known, either. He had to fight hard, biting his own lips several times and pretending to more sleepiness than he really felt, to conceal his grin. The _Daily Prophet _post owl hadn't arrived yet, but Draco hoped it would soon. What if Skeeter's article was so long it had to be put off until the evening edition? Then he would lose the chance to see the two women's faces change.

Harry, oddly enough, sounded more in command of himself, but he had the luck of standing at the counter with his back to the kitchen whilst he prepared breakfast. "It was less exciting than you'd think. He made quite a fool of himself when he confessed under Hermione's spell." His wand twisted over in his hand, and four eggs made a floating procession past him into a pan. Draco stifled the impulse to ask if he'd learned that spell from a Weasley. He wanted to tease Harry like that, but only in private for the moment, until he learned to trust more strongly in the fragile, glowing bond that connected them. As it was, Granger would probably take the question for an insult and lash out to defend her dead fiancé's family. "I almost felt sorry for him."

"That's the one thing you should never feel for an enemy," Millicent said firmly. "The next thing you know, you're being betrayed by your own weakness into surrendering to them."

"I don't know," Harry said, and twisted around to smile at Draco. "I think it's more difficult to judge those things. Do you feel that I've surrendered to you, or you've surrendered to me, or are we both as helpless as each other?"

Draco smiled tentatively. Perhaps he couldn't tease in front of other people yet, but it seemed Harry had no trouble doing so. And seeing the way Harry stood straighter and beamed back at a smile from him made it much easier to relax.

"Yes, but you weren't really enemies when you fell in love," said Granger, who had to miss the point and make things more annoying as usual. "Harry was reluctant to ask you for help with modifying the potion for me, Malfoy, but that was because he thought you would treat us with contempt even as you helped. He didn't doubt your skill. And I think you found him fascinating from the first, if only because you didn't know what potion he was drinking. That was the continuation of an old fascination from your schooldays, which began when you realized that you couldn't cow or intimidate the Boy-Who-Lived. I read a book once which said—"

_And other times, _Draco thought, _Granger is all too disconcertingly intelligent. _"And I read a book once which said that long-term dependence on a potion, any potion, makes a person difficult to live with, because she starts thinking about vials and corks and the next dose instead of other people," he said. "What about you, Granger? Are you ready to stop using the Desire potion?"

Millicent looked up and ceased tapping her finger for a moment on the teacup. "Were you?" she asked. "I didn't know that."

Granger looked at Draco with no very friendly expression, but he knew himself to be her equal, and under Harry's protection in any case, so he could look back with equanimity. So she had to clear her throat and say, "I don't think the depression will come back. I—I enjoy seeing people again, and when I was affected by that sadness I didn't want to see anyone. I would have liked to push my face into the back of the couch and never move again, in fact."

Millicent was leaning forwards, staring at her incredulously. Draco supposed she was trying to reconcile the active, plotting Granger she had come to know with the woman as she described herself.

"But I can't be certain that it won't come back," Granger finished in a low voice. "What if this energy to face life again is _only_ the product of Desire? I know the potion was meant to give me some time free of the depression to recover my own natural strength, but is there really a way to tell the difference between strength I may have recovered and strength I've only developed as a result of the potion?" She looked at Draco, who found himself acutely uncomfortable. He cleared his throat in turn and decided that he would find a graceful way to say he couldn't be sure if it killed him.

Millicent intervened before he could. She snorted and leaned into Granger's line of sight. Her hip was braced on a chair, and she was shaking her head as though a fly had flown into her ear. "Really," she said. "You can ask that question?"

Granger glared at her, her arms folded and her face once again flushed with anger, which Draco thought she enjoyed a great deal more than the weakness she had just shown. From the more relaxed way Harry was watching her, he thought so, too. "You weren't around to see me as I was three months ago," she said shortly, "or you wouldn't ask that question."

"I know that no one as strong as you are, and as clever with plans to harm Lucius and Diggory, should doubt herself like that," Millicent said fiercely. She reached out and took Granger's hand, squeezing it hard enough to make her wince. "Of course it's your own strength. Desire might have made you a trifle quicker to recover, but it can't give you what you don't have within you."

"You can't know that," Granger said irritably. "And though you told me about arranging potions ingredients, that's not the same thing as knowing anything about potions themselves."

"I know more than you do," Millicent said, serenely unarguable. Granger opened her mouth again, probably to explain her high marks in Hogwarts—sometimes Draco thought she would live in school mentally for the rest of her life—but Millicent spoke straight on. "And I know that the only certain test you have is forsaking the potion and seeing what happens."

"I don't—" And then Granger shut her lips and sat very still.

"You don't want to see what will happen?" Millicent taunted her softly. "I can't believe that, since the anxiety over it is causing you so much pain. At least once you face it, it'll be done." Granger started to stand, but Millicent leaned further towards her, making the chair that supported her wobble dangerously, and snorted again. "It's more that you're afraid to face disappointment. You don't want to find that you can't do without Desire, even though there's no shame in it."

"No shame in being potion-dependent for the rest of my life?" Granger raised her eyebrows.

"Gryffindors leap to such extreme conclusions all the time," Millicent remarked to Draco. "I wonder that you don't tire of it." Then she turned back to Granger with the air of a martyr. "Because you might need another week or month of Desire doesn't mean you would be potion-dependent for the rest of your life. Honestly, if you sat down and thought about saving your own life as logically as you think about ruining other people's, you would realize _that._"

Granger looked as if she didn't know whether to take those words as a compliment or an insult. In the end, a reluctant smile lighting her face, she nodded. "I won't take the vial I'm due tomorrow," she said. "The potion should work itself out of my system in a few days. And then—I'll see what happens."

"_We'll _see what happens," Millicent said.

"I would prefer to do this alone." Granger regarded her unblinkingly.

Draco could have told her Millicent would win any staring contest they had. She'd been famous for it in the Slytherin common room. She did it again now, and said sweetly, as Granger's gaze dropped away from her, "Too bloody bad."

Granger narrowed her eyes. "You can't force me to undergo this in front of you."

"If I hide your potion and then remain at your side for the next few days," Millicent pointed out, "it will be just as if I did."

Harry's shoulders were shaking with restrained laughter. Draco was too interested to laugh. He watched Granger stare at Millicent as if remembering those times in Hogwarts when someone tried to move Millicent where she didn't want to be moved. She had been able to challenge even Vincent and Gregory for sheer passive stubbornness.

_And unlike them, _Draco thought, wincing as he remembered Vincent's death in the Fiendfyre, _she retained that and learned to make it into a virtue._

"All _right_," Granger said, in the tone she would use when granting a favor. Millicent at once leaned back into the chair and picked up her teacup as if they'd had a conversation of no great importance. Granger opened her mouth to add something Draco knew would be highly entertaining, but at that moment, the _Daily Prophet _post owl swooped across the table.

Draco couldn't have planned things better if he'd communed with the owl beforehand. The paper fell right in front of Granger. Out of habit, or maybe because the noise had startled her, she looked down at the front page.

The next moment, she gasped so loudly that Millicent hurtled to her side, and so both of them saw it in almost the same instant.

For the rest of his life, Draco thought he would never forget their identical staring eyes and hanging jaws.

* * *

First there was screaming. Then there was a medley of pointing fingers and reaching hands. Harry almost spilled the eggs on the floor, and then he almost burned the toast. Then there was a cacophony of argument in which he didn't join, mostly because Draco was laughing so hard he made Harry's contribution all on his own, and besides Harry was trying to rescue breakfast.

So, when he finally sat down with the _Prophet _and had a look at the article Skeeter had concocted out of the observations she'd made yesterday, it was more than three hours later, and Hermione and Millicent had left to brood in peace. Draco was examining potions vials on the other side of the room, his shoulders still quaking sometimes.

The headline was in letters three inches tall, of course, though for the first time Harry could remember, it was also in red ink. _**POTTER FOUND INNOCENT!**_The smaller headline—though only by an inch—underneath that read _**DIGGORY CONFESSES ALL!**_

He wondered idly for a moment whether the headlines had been Skeeter's choice, or that of someone more concerned about selling newspapers than about the finer details. But he was sure she was responsible for the photograph above the article itself. It showed him and Draco kissing, with Diggory flailing helplessly in the background.

Harry found it uncomfortable to look at, and rather likely to increase his sense of sympathy for Diggory than otherwise. He looked down instead, and smiled at the byline, the first time he could remember having done so, before he was caught up in the article. It made no pretense of objective reporting, as usual, but this time Skeeter really had outdone herself in trying to engage her readers' interest.

_Imagine, for one moment, that you've spent most of your life in the service of the wizarding world. From the time you were a baby, you were a hero to thousands, though you grew up not knowing it, in the middle of a Muggle world that ignored you as a small and useless child. And then you came to Hogwarts, to a place you hoped would be different, and found that the opposite of total neglect is just as bad. Sharp extremes of adulation, sudden fear, praise for moments that terror and rage and fighting for your life smeared in your mind—would you have been able to maintain your mental balance?_

She'd got one thing wrong, Harry thought. He remembered most of the horrible things that had happened to him all too clearly. If Skeeter wanted his memories so badly, he would have been glad to give her his nightmares of brilliant basilisk eyes and the whispering veil in the Department of Mysteries.

_And yet somehow, Harry Potter did exactly this, even with a Dark Lord trying to destroy him regularly every year of his entire schooling. Not only did he remain sane, but he created a highly successful business based on the modification of film for wizarding cameras after the war._

"Define 'highly successful,'" Harry muttered. Draco glanced up in curiosity, but turned back a moment later, because evidently a crack in a vial demanded his entire attention.

_He had a series of love affairs over the years, and didn't settle down with his girlfriend Ginny Weasley, whom most people "in the know" expected him to spend the rest of his life with. But fate had greater things in mind for him. He extended the hand of friendship, and then of love, to an old enemy, Draco Malfoy, and created a potion named Desire that was even more successful than his film business. Yet the potion immediately came under attack from the Potions committee in the Ministry of Magic, and then Mr. Malfoy's shop was destroyed, along with most of the stock of Desire. Fate or fortune, one of the two, seemed to have nothing but hatred for our young hero. _

_Yet in this case fortune had a helping hand, just as it always used to when the Dark Lord confronted Harry Potter._

Harry raised an eyebrow. He had wondered why Skeeter had spent so much space and ink telling people what they already knew. Now he realized the truth, and he had to admit he admired her strategy. She would spring the surprise on them by connecting the seemingly random occurrences of bad luck for Harry and Draco into a coherent narrative, just when she had lulled her audience into assuming they knew everything.

_The helping hand was that of Charlemagne Diggory, whom many of you may know from our pages as the popularly-favored candidate for Minister of Magic. Of course, whether he deserves that accolade remains to be seen. It was Mr. Diggory who was responsible for the Potions committee taking a sudden and violent interest in the Desire potion, and he was also connected to the collapse of Mr. Malfoy's shop._

_And yesterday, he arranged an illegal trial, controlled by several of his friends among the Wizengamot, trying Harry Potter on charges of being able to devour magic and concealing creature blood in his family line._

_It will seem strange to the more enlightened reader, I know. You start back from the page. You cock your head. How could the blood of magical creatures in Mr. Potter's family have gone unnoticed, with your faithful reporter investigating every occurrence of far more minor note in his life over the past few years? And you are right in surmising that it could not. Mr. Potter is as human as most of us, though considerably better-looking than most._

_The claim that Mr. Potter was part-creature—specifically, part-incubus—was nothing more than a desperate, clumsy attempt by Mr. Diggory to punish Mr. Potter for not supporting him in the race for Minister of Magic. That's right, dear readers. We might have traded a genuine war hero in our Minister Shacklebolt for a schoolboy who takes his grudges to ridiculous extremes._

Harry grinned. He was sure that reporters from other papers would be scrambling, right at this moment, to seize on Skeeter's example and repeat her phrasing. If Diggory escaped being known as the Schoolboy Candidate during the rest of the election, Harry would be surprised.

_The members of the Wizengamot who supported Mr. Diggory's claim, specifically Eleanor Williams and Prunella Agonistes, were openly corrupt. They shut Minister Shacklebolt out of the proceedings. They claimed that the courtroom was closed to such character witnesses as Mr. Potter had tried to assemble. They refused Mr. Potter permission to take Veritaserum, using a variety of feeble excuses to abrogate a right that has been essential to wizarding justice since the Ministry was founded. They did not demand that Mr. Diggory summon the "expert witness" who was to have provided evidence that Mr. Potter really did have incubus blood._

_Under adverse circumstances, facing Azkaban, our hero fought back as he did when the Ministry wrongfully accused him of using underage magic in his fourteenth year. He destroyed Mr. Diggory's arguments—weakened by his arrogance and belief that he would face no real opposition—with relentless logic. One memorable quote: "_It sounds like what it is, a secondary plan put together on the fly when you realized the implications of some of the evidence we'd gathered against you."

_That evidence turned out to be strong indeed. Soon a group consisting of Minister Shacklebolt, war heroine Hermione Granger, potions-brewer Draco Malfoy, and Hunter Littlesmith, a witness to the justifiable use of Mr. Potter's magic-devouring powers, charged into the courtroom. Among other things, they brought with them evidence that Mr. Diggory had led a group of wizards to Mr. Malfoy's new shop and ordered them to curse him all at once. The allegiances of the Wizengamot changed swiftly upon the witnessing of these memories, by which we may conclude that they realized what the man they were preparing to accept as lord and master was really worth._

_More courageous than anyone would have demanded he be given his family name, Draco Malfoy stood up before the court and explained his degrading and heinous treatment at the hands of Daphne Greengrass. This was the witch whose magic Mr. Potter devoured, leaving her a Squib. She was certainly a victim—but such a deserving one can rarely have been met with in the annals of our history. She tortured and raped Mr. Malfoy, and refused to stop when Mr. Potter offered her the chance. Driven by love alone, as he was when he saved the wizarding world, Mr. Potter did the regrettable but necessary thing and murdered her magic._

_As if that were not enough. Mr. Diggory lost his head and condemned himself out of his own mouth. He admitted that jealousy of Mr. Potter's fame and what he called the "effortless" way he had earned it inspired him to lead his noisome crusade. One suspects that Mr. Diggory paid attention to only selected passages of this paper in the past few decades, or he would have learned exactly how hard Mr. Potter's life has been._

_What followed was a tirade composed of baseless accusations, mindless envy, and claims that Mr. Diggory deserved to be made Minister because Mr. Potter had irritated him. He did his best to ruin people who were not Mr. Potter, including Mr. Draco Malfoy, because of that irritation. Let us be wary of putting power in the hands of such a madman._

_In the end, the Wizengamot sensibly declared that Mr. Potter was innocent and free to go, and he kissed his lover in front of the courtroom whilst those who had championed them looked on approvingly._

_Thus in one day, a ridiculous trial and an equally ridiculous run for Minister came to an end. It will be long before you see Mr. Diggory in these pages without a rider attached to his name, if ever._

Harry laid down the paper and turned again to the front page, where Diggory stood behind the kissing figures of him and Draco and opened and shut his mouth uselessly. Harry's sympathy for him had withered.

_If he dared to try and destroy me and Draco, this is what he deserves._


	24. Lucius's Humiliation

Thank you again for all the reviews!

_Chapter Twenty-Four—Lucius's Humiliation_

Draco did, after all, sit down to write a letter to his father the morning after Skeeter's article had come out and skewered all of Diggory's precious ambitions.

Like the potion he had brewed, the letter was a work of art, and depended on an intimate knowledge of Lucius that no one else could have had. Draco had been there to watch his father's mouth tighten when he was disappointed, to see the half-convulsive gesture he made when he saw the Dark Lord fall in the Great Hall of Hogwarts. Lucius had surely known by then that the side he'd chosen had _lost_, and that his Lord would have punished his family if he had lived. And yet he'd made that gesture anyway, clutching after the power and the influence that he saw sliding away from him.

Draco made the letter brag and boast, reflecting the person Lucius still thought he was: the Slytherin son who would always value power and conquest more than anything else. And here and there he placed hints—a word scored out; a trembling phrase; slightly too much insistence on the fact of his victory—that would make Lucius think he wavered, and even on the glittering height of his triumph still feared that he might fall.

Such bait would be irresistible to his father. The silliest contortions Draco had ever seen him go through had come about when he realized one of his Ministry opponents wasn't so confident that he could get legislation passed to protect Muggles after all. Lucius had gone to extremes of effort to punish that hesitation and win the battle that Draco had watched with an open mouth. But in the end, the law had failed, the uncertain enemy had fallen back into the ranks of ordinary Ministry flunkies, and Lucius was satisfied. He had actually smiled as he sipped wine the next night.

So now Draco offered him the vision of a son he could still reclaim, if he chose to press hard on that uncertainty. The young man in his words was one emerged from the shadow of his father, but not ready to attack the world as he found it. He lingered, glancing back at what he'd escaped from, taunting loudly enough to prove that he was "strong" to all the world but softly enough not to attract the monster's attention.

As Draco watched the owl winging away to Malfoy Manor with his letter attached to its foot, he experienced a sense of deep peace. Lucius would read the letter and show up at the party Harry and Draco were attending in a few days, as he never would have if Draco had sent him an actual invitation. He would come because he thought he wasn't wanted there, because he believed he would cripple them simply by showing up.

Draco glanced sideways at the stoppered vial of potion that lay on the table beside him. Of course glass and cork could convey no living impression and have no opinion, but he thought they waited as patiently as he did, and as menacingly, for Lucius to walk into their trap.

* * *

"I suppose you want me to wear very formal robes to this party, too," Harry complained to Draco as he shut the front door behind him. He'd spent several hours with Hermione and Millicent, listening as they planned out the trap that would catch Lucius and informed Harry on how _he _would be expected to act. Millicent was convinced Harry would give it all away if he came close to Lucius, so he was to stay away as if he feared being cornered by the man. Harry found that more insulting to his pride than he'd expected. But even that, and the discussion that followed—as if Hermione thought Harry wouldn't understand without having the instructions repeated and rephrased forty different times—was better than the discussion about his clothes. Millicent felt they were disgraceful on, Harry was certain, no more evidence than that of his tattered Muggle clothes in Hogwarts. Since then, he wore _perfectly _nice robes. But those weren't fancy enough for their little party, apparently.

"The party is going to be at the Gathering Circle, Harry," Hermione had informed him impressively, leaning forwards across the table in her flat. It was covered with maps and lists of potions ingredients. Harry wasn't sure he wanted to know why she had those. "The dress robes you could buy in Madam Malkin's would just get you sneered at it if you wore them. Millicent has contacts in the clothing industry who can help you."

"What is the Gathering Circle?" Harry demanded.

Millicent cocked her head and gave him a cross-eyed look of hopeless despair. Hermione looked disapproving and started to stand, going to the bookshelf where heavy leather tomes waited, muttering, "You would think that after all these years you might have made a _start _on wizarding history…"

"Just tell me a name I might know it by," Harry said. The last time Hermione had pulled out a history book, he'd been involved in a conversation that lasted five hours and somehow ended up ranging from the witch trials to the proper composition of Wolfsbane Potion. Hermione really should have been a history teacher, not a Ministry worker. "Or describe it. In less than five hundred words," he added, seeing the gleam in Hermione's eye.

"Stonehenge," Hermione said, and sighed. "Muggles call it Stonehenge."

"And why don't wizards call it that?" Harry asked, thinking he might finally have understood something about the difference between wizards and Muggles that Hermione didn't herself. "It sounds like a more poetic name than the Gathering Circle."

"There's only one Gathering Circle in Britain, when you capitalize it like that." Millicent looked at him in pity now. "And the Muggles named it after the features they can see. We name it after the features that appear only a few times a year. Luckily, one of those times is coming up soon, and even without Draco's letter, I think it might be perfect bait for Lucius."

Harry scowled at them. That was another thing that was driving him mad. No one would tell him what they had planned for Lucius, only that it would be grand and humiliating. Since they'd been forced to bring Draco into the plan so he could brew the potion—whatever it _was_—Hermione and Millicent seemed determined to leave Harry out so they would still have the thrill of surprising someone.

Millicent had smiled. Then she had brought out several sets of dress robes that she said she'd had waiting around because she'd already suspected that Harry would be a difficult person to fit.

And so Harry spent the rest of the afternoon walking in and out of cupboards, displaying numerous dress robes that had no differences of color he could see. Millicent criticized him for not standing straight or walking so that the hem dragged on the floor all the same, and Hermione shook her head and said, "Honestly, Harry, I'm not Parvati or Lavender, and _I _can see how unsuitable some of these would be on you. You're just not paying attention."

Harry had escaped to his own flat with the vague excuse that Draco expected him home for dinner. Hermione nodded, but Millicent gave him a dragon's smile over Hermione's shoulder, implying she knew exactly why he'd fled. Then she picked up the robe he'd liked least, because it had the most lace and buttons, and announced, "I think this will just do."

If Draco wanted him to try on robes, Harry promised himself, he was going to devour his _own _magic like a snake swallowing its tail, and give them all something else to think about.

Draco clucked his tongue as he stood up from the table he'd been sitting at, with the vial of potion beside him, and hugged Harry. "Did they torment my poor baby with details he's too thick-brained to understand?" he asked, digging his hands into the back of Harry's neck and massaging hard.

Harry tilted his head, groaning, until his mind caught up with the words Draco had spoken. He opened one eye and glared. "It's hard to understand anything when you won't _tell _me anything," he said.

"The expression on your face will be worth it," Draco said, and grinned at him. "Don't worry, I'll conjure you a mirror so you can see it too. And Millicent will make sure you look wonderful. She's surprisingly good at that, because she can match people to their surroundings."

Harry shook his head and then dropped it forwards as Draco dug into his neck again. "I don't like it when I have nothing to do," he murmured.

Draco's lips brushed the stubble on his neck immediately below his hair. "I can give you something to do," he suggested, low-voiced.

"Of course you can," Harry said, and let Draco take his hand and lead him to bed. Dinner could wait.

Draco woke sobbing a few hours later, one of the nightmares that Daphne was responsible for lashing and uncoiling in him. Harry held him with steady but gentle hands through the thrashing, and then soothed him back to sleep again curled up on top of his chest, so that only Draco's feet and elbows touched the bed, and cradled him until nine-o'clock, when they both woke ravenously hungry.

"You don't," Draco said when they sat at the table, "ever have to worry that you don't do anything for me."

Harry reached out and squeezed his hand in silence, feeling it better if he didn't speak.

* * *

Harry was grumbling beside him and adjusting the collar of his dress robes for the sixth time. Draco did what he could to ignore him. They stood on the outskirts of the plain that contained Stonehenge, waiting for the moment when the full moon would ascend high enough into the sky to transform it into the Gathering Circle.

Muggles had tried to prevent them from approaching, of course. They were Confounded or Obliviated. Draco had seen Harry wince a little when he applied his own spells, but he didn't see why. Harry had left the Muggle world behind when he became part of the wizarding one. And to survive, they had to stay hidden. Not even Granger pushed for full integration of the Muggle and wizarding worlds, only for better treatment of the people from the first who might accidentally stray into the latter.

Draco shook his head and grinned a little. He didn't know why he was feeling so defensive, letting his mind run on thoughts that might have occupied his father's. Because so few moments made him feel as much like a wizard as this one did, he supposed, though he had seen the Gathering Circle appear only a few times.

The low murmur of voices around them died as the moon ascended into its proper place. Draco, staring upwards, thought he heard a high, chiming note like six wineglasses breaking at once.

Then threads of silver light spiraled out from the moon, forming a hazy corona around it that the Muggles would take to be a natural weather phenomenon. It took eyes born to magic to see the way the threads came together, forming several great cradles that broadened and thickened as they swung towards the ground. A final swing, and they landed around the circle of stones. The air blazed and swam, so thick with magic that Draco could draw the scent into his nostrils, the smell of burned milk or sugar. Then the silver surged away, and he was gazing at solid constructions that never existed except on nights like this.

Harry gasped. Draco put a steadying hand on his arm and smiled, hoping he would see it, without taking his eyes from the beauty in front of him. It was always easier to appreciate in these first moments, when no people had trampled into it yet.

New circles of stone surrounded the ones normally visible on the plain, circles that in reality had fallen long ago, but had escaped death by being written in the moonlight. They could only appear at limited times, but that was far better, Draco thought, than never being able to appear at all.

The new stones shone and flashed silver-gray, as though they were made of granite with flakes of quartz embedded. The pillars seemed lighter and more slender than was possible to support the weight of the lintels laid across them; the lintels had sharp, polished edges. Beneath them ran twisting spiral paths that mimicked the patterns in which the light had come down from the moon. Draco could not shed the conviction, even now, that he would coat his feet with moondust if he walked there. He shivered and stepped forwards, and then he was part of a massive movement surging towards the moon-spun stones from every corner of the plain.

Harry walked slowly beside him. When Draco looked up, he saw an expression of mystified wonder on his face. Draco smiled a little. It was an expression he remembered from a robe shop seventeen years ago. He was glad to be part of an experience that would give Harry back that sense of magic untouched and unsullied, even if it was only for a few hours.

In among the stones, the beauty was more intense, and the air sharp and cool with a scent like sea-spray. Harry reached out a hand that trembled to touch the nearest stone. He seemed startled when it brushed solidly against his fingers.

"They're real for now," Draco murmured into his ear, and pulled him further in. "My mother said that was long enough."

"This isn't really _our_ party, is it?" Harry asked as they stepped onto the first spiral path. Silver sparks rose up around them, brushing like wet pebbles against their skin and then subsiding. "I can't imagine a way that we could have fed all these people, or invited them in just a week, for that matter."

Draco smiled and shook his head. "The Ministry tells the public when the Gathering Circle will appear and collects announcements of the various celebrations that people want to hold there. Some of these guests will be here to enjoy the beauty, and others to celebrate a new job or a marriage, and others to forget their mourning for the dead for a time. But others," he added, as they turned a spiral and ended up close to one of the largest boulders, "are here to celebrate your release from prison."

Granger rose to her feet, smiling, from a table that existed only for tonight. Millicent stood not far behind her, and behind them were the Weasels. Draco rolled his eyes when they chorused "Surprise!" but grinned whole-heartedly at the look of absolute astonishment on Harry's face.

Harry was busy then for a time, going from Weasel to Weasel, hugging them and asking them what they were doing and how they were and how they'd come to be here, with so few pauses for breath in between that Draco wondered in amusement how he expected to get answers to all his questions. The Weasley matriarch rubbed her eyes on a handkerchief several times, and once blubbered openly on his shoulder. The tall brother married to the part-Veela—Draco tried to avoid seeing the scars on his face—hugged Harry until Draco could hear his bones creak. Even the dragon-taming brother from Romania was there, which Draco knew was a rare occurrence, and he said something to Harry, involving someone named "Norberta," which made Harry explode in laughter.

And then there was the girl-Weasel, whose magic Harry had almost devoured. She stood next to her boyfriend, Thomas, on the far edge of the crowd, her hands twisting anxiously into each other and her eyes on Harry's face.

Draco remained politely back and didn't attempt to catch her gaze. He understood that Harry probably would feel some guilt over his decision to stop taking the potion, which would make her fear him more. He was prepared to let him feel that if he needed to, and he wouldn't intervene in any conversation Harry might have with her. But he couldn't bring himself to feel sorry that Harry had nearly eaten her magic. If he hadn't, then Draco never would have had a chance to meet and fall in love with him.

When the moment came that Harry had engaged with all the other Weasleys he could, she stepped forwards. She had a bright, fake smile on her face—surely even her other family members had to be able to tell it was fake?—and held out her hands to Harry. Harry clasped them both and stood gazing down into her eyes with a tenderness that made Draco's insides squirm uncomfortably. Certainly it could not be jealousy. He's done what Weasley couldn't and borne the revelation of Harry's real strength without screaming and running away. And Harry already felt enough guilt over the most bizarre and minor things. Draco preferred the way Harry related to him most of the time, which combined exasperation and irritation with the love and gentleness.

Weasley said something Draco couldn't hear and probably wouldn't have cared to, and lifted a hand to touch Harry's cheek. Draco stiffened in spite of himself. But Harry caught her fingers before they could reach his face, squeezed them, and then cradled them in his other hand whilst he talked to her, with his eyes turning to Draco now and then. Weasley parted her lips in what might have been a sigh and nodded. She never made another movement to touch him that Draco could see from several minutes of watching.

Satisfied, Draco turned away—

And caught a glimpse of pale hair moving through the crowd, at the gliding speed Lucius often used when he wanted to watch for a familiar face without betraying that he was doing so.

Draco smiled and rose to his feet, touching the vial of potion in his pocket. Then he assumed a determined expression fraying at the edges and moved towards the hair, casting out small showers of green sparks to draw the attention of Granger and Millicent. Millicent turned towards him at once, face ablaze with excitement, and shook Granger's shoulder when she remained deep in conversation with Shacklebolt instead of looking up. Granger snapped at her, but Millicent said one word and she began to grin.

Draco shuddered lightly. He still wasn't convinced he had done the wizarding world a favor by introducing the two of them. God knew what they would do when this evening was over and they didn't have Millicent's vengeance to occupy them, but Draco feared for the future.

He fixed his gaze on his prey, then, and dived in for the kill.

* * *

"And I can accept that," Ginny said with a small sigh. "I don't—I don't think I can ever forget what you did to me, but I'm happy now, and you're happy, and that's what really matters, doesn't it?"

Her lower lip was trembling, and Harry wasn't sure she believed her own declaration. But he nodded at her, smiled, and had just opened his mouth to speak another reassuring sentiment when he felt a sensation like a tap on his shoulder.

No one stood behind him, and a moment later he realized it must be a spell that Hermione had developed to attract his attention when he was in the middle of an intense situation she didn't feel comfortable approaching. He whispered to Ginny, "Something's happening centered around Lucius Malfoy tonight, and I think Hermione and Draco want me to be there. If you'll excuse me?"

Ginny stared at him for a moment, then nodded. Harry didn't know if it was his announcement that had made her look like that, or the notion that the man who had tormented her with Riddle's diary was there—or perhaps simply the casual way he had called Draco by his first name. But she let him go, and Dean put an arm around her waist and said something into her ear that made her lean back against him trustingly.

_She'll be fine, _Harry decided as he wound carefully through the crowd in the direction of Draco's bright head. _And Dean loves her in a different way than I did, probably a way that she needs more than she needed what I could offer her._

Even if that wasn't the truth, though, Harry knew he couldn't feel much guilt about his decision to be with Draco, or to give up the potion. He was in love again for the first time in six years, and there was simply no backing away from what that meant for him.

He stepped into a small but widening circle of people, and saw Draco standing in front of Lucius, his head bowed. Harry burned to step forwards, and had to fight hard to hold his tongue and his body both still. Hermione and Millicent had warned him something like this would happen. They had also told him not to interfere. But Harry hated seeing Draco look so broken, even if he was only playacting. He'd had enough of that during the days in hospital when he first got to see exactly what Daphne had done to him.

"Father," Draco whispered, "I—you must believe that I would never attempt to poison you." He held a glass of water in one hand, Harry saw then. He was bobbing it nervously back and forth between them, as if he wished he didn't have to hold it.

"Draco," said Lucius, and his nostrils flared and his eyes glowed and his hair fluttered and he was the picture of a man in triumph, "you _would _try to poison me. I saw through your pathetic trick the moment you offered me the drink."

Draco flinched and drew himself inwards. Then he turned as if he had made up his mind to walk away from his father. Lucius reached out and laid a heavy hand on his shoulder.

Harry was the one who flinched this time. He could see the way the hand held too tightly, probably causing Draco pain in his shoulder blade. But Draco turned around and stared at Lucius as if he were utterly used to it.

"You're right," he whispered, his voice filled with a sludge of bitterness. "I never should have tried to trick you. You _always _win." He turned to pour the water out on the floor. Harry tensed in surprise. He knew Draco had brewed some kind of potion, and he suspected the potion was in the water.

Lucius deftly plucked the glass from Draco's hand and held it aloft. Seeing the flush in his cheeks deepen and the way he carefully collected the eyes of everyone around him, Harry suspected the moment of public confrontation had caught up with him. He might have acted more cautiously around his son in private, but he had challenged him and made Draco seemingly back down. Now he wanted to break him completely, and he could do that only by showing that he wasn't afraid of whatever potion or poison Draco might have infected the glass with.

Lucius proceeded to cast a series of impressive spells on the water, checking for poisons that Harry hadn't even heard of and for every potion included on the Hogwarts potions curriculum and many that weren't, including Desire. The silence deepened and the attention from the crowd grew more intense the more time passed. Lucius's eyes, on the other hand, tightened at the corners.

Harry knew why. He had expected to identify the poison long before now. When he couldn't, he had to face the possibility that Draco had been too clever for him. But once again, he couldn't back away, because everyone was watching.

Draco kept every expression off his face as he watched. Still, Harry could see the quivering expectation in his shoulders. He had a right to be proud of himself, he thought. He had twisted his _father's _pride, which Lucius had depended on to hold himself up as a Malfoy and separate himself from Muggleborns, into a net to catch him.

Finally, Lucius looked up with a light laugh. "You are a fool, then, Draco," he said, "to try and bluff me with rumors of poison. Did you not think I would find out?" And because he probably didn't have any faith in the potions skills Draco had been cast out of Malfoy Manor for making his living by, because he had probably always thought that Draco was exaggerating how much of an artist he was, or perhaps only because he was more afraid of being thought weak by the public than anything else, he put the glass to his lips and swallowed the water.

Murmurs exploded from the crowd around them. Most of them would have decided it was ordinary water and that Lucius had won this victory. Others might be wondering if Draco was such a good brewer after all, if he didn't trust himself to invent a new potion and place it undetectably into water.

Draco let his mouth part in a shark's grin that Harry suspected only Lucius fully understood the import of, and then Millicent and Hermione leaned around the people they'd been hiding behind and likewise smiled at him. Because it seemed expected, Harry rose to his toes and grinned over the shoulder of the person in front of him, even though he didn't know what the potion did.

Lucius put a hand to his throat, slowly. Then his eyes went wide and blank. He folded his arms and began to declaim.

"Now that _I _am Minister, I will pass laws changing the way we live. Mudblood children are to be drained of their magic immediately when they begin to exhibit it, and they and their families Obliviated. Mudblood adults will be put to work doing the menial labor that is the only thing they are fit for. Perhaps some of them can replace house-elves, whose plight I understand they complain about." Lucius gave a nasty little laugh. "And of course we must do something about the goblins. They have been granted the pretense of equal rights for far too long. They will—"

The roar of noise drowned out Lucius's speech by then, but Harry had felt a riffle past his neck, and was sure Skeeter was present to report it for posterity. He stepped forwards in the meanwhile and wrapped his arms around Draco's waist. Draco grinned at him.

"What was that potion?" Harry whispered.

"A variant of Desire, attuned to Lucius." Draco was smiling viciously now, in a way that made Harry hope they would never break up badly if they _did _break up. "A _variant _of Desire, understand, only mimicking that potion in a few small details. He's always wanted powerful political position, but thought he had to give up that dream after the second war. This gives him what he desires—by making him think he's already attained the position, and destroying what prevented him from achieving it, his caution and sense of reality."

Harry laughed aloud. A few people looked at him curiously, but most were listening to Lucius in fascination, or shouting questions that he answered with careless ease, leaning forwards and winking occasionally. Harry hardly thought the answers pleasant to listen to, but at least they really let everyone present know what Lucius Malfoy thought, to the very depths of his perverted soul.

"We might be in danger from him, too," he did have to say. "He might try to take vengeance, the way Diggory might."

Draco shook his head, not looking away from his father. "No. Father, in his right mind at least, is different—which is why he didn't make the run at Minister himself in the first place. He'll _have _to change his mind now, because he will have realized I can indeed trick him and best him, which he never believed before. He'll have to see that I remained strong even though I rejected his beliefs, and that my new state of mind is better suited to living in this world than his old one is. That will mean he reevaluates himself for a long time before he attacks anyone else."

He grinned at Harry again. "And who knows? In the end, this may even be the means of reconciliation between me and my father. If he has to admit I'm right and start believing the same things I do…" Draco let his voice trail off suggestively.

Harry shook his head. "I don't know if I'll ever understand you, but I love you anyway."

Draco leaned back on his shoulder with a little sigh "I could say the same of you," he said. "Romantic declarations with good seats for watching Lucius Malfoy make a fool of himself…what could be better?"


	25. Epilogue: Their Happy Ever After

Thank you again for all the reviews!

This is the very last chapter of the _Intellectual Love Affair _trilogy. I certainly never expected most of the plot twists that sprang up in the second and third installment, and I didn't expect the series to last so long, either. Here's hoping that everyone who came with me on the journey enjoyed it as much as I did.

_Epilogue—Their Happy Ever After_

"And you claim that Narcissa Malfoy had the power to break into Mr. Potter's cell and cast a spell that would have made him her puppet?" The member of the Wizengamot, whose first name Draco didn't know, but whose surname was Gregorian, spoke in a voice edged with polite disbelief.

Draco took a deep breath. He had already made his choice between his mother and his lover, months ago, when he told Narcissa that he was walking away from her for attacking Harry. And the real decision had come before he ever loved Harry, when he realized he could make his living by his art and the beliefs he now knew were real, or turn back into the glass house his parents lived in and pull the door shut behind him.

But it was still not an easy thing, to speak the words that might condemn his mother to a year in Azkaban. Though less so with the Dementors gone, it was not a pleasant place, and she would not come out unchanged.

Draco tossed a quick glance at the chair for condemned criminals where his mother sat, as Harry had sat recently. Narcissa met his gaze with blank, proud eyes. Even if they had still been speaking, she would not have looked at him any other way, not in public.

_Always that pride, _Draco thought. _It matters more to her than love, or freedom, or life, or me._

That made it easier to face the Wizengamot and say stolidly, "Yes. You've heard the evidence from the other witnesses. Narcissa Malfoy did not act alone. She had contacts in the Ministry who bribed the Aurors into standing aside for her, or made sure they were removed." Draco didn't want to speak Charlemagne Diggory's name. He'd already heard too much of it for his own liking today. And if anyone in the Wizengamot didn't realize who he meant by "contacts," they weren't going to vote to send Narcissa to prison in any case. "And she took the risk of casting such a Dark spell in the Ministry because she expected glorious returns. Not once did she think I would enter the cell in time to stop her, or that Harry Potter had the mental strength to resist."

Harry leaned against his back, not touching him more than that—the Wizengamot had already objected to the kisses and touches Harry had given Draco earlier—but reassuring and settling Draco with his solid strength. Draco leaned into him. Harry had described his experience under Narcissa's spell already. Draco had stood frozen with horror and recognition. For a short time only, Harry had experienced the same thing that Draco had when he writhed in Daphne's embrace.

Draco was going to take Harry home tonight and make love to him until he forgot everything else. Another experience they shared too much of was giving testimony about intimate processes of their minds in courtrooms.

Gregorian leaned back in his seat and sighed. "No more questions."

Draco nodded and looked around at the rest of the Wizengamot. They all shook their heads. It was a relief to be allowed to fade into the background beside Harry, his arm around his partner's neck, and listen to the buzz of the courtroom as they began to decide Narcissa's fate.

Harry, Minister Shacklebolt, Granger, several Aurors, and Draco himself had testified on the side condemning Narcissa. Narcissa had not deigned to call a single witness of her own. When Gregorian had asked her if she didn't want to summon her husband or Charlemagne Diggory to speak to her character, Narcissa had given him a single withering look and not spoken aloud.

_Pride, _Draco thought, watching her back. Pride was keeping Narcissa upright—and caging her. _She won't plead like anyone else, because she doesn't think she's like anyone else and she shouldn't have to. How many stupid things have she and Lucius done simply because they can't grasp that they live in the same world with the rest of us?_

The Wizengamot retreated into a private room once they had determined that they had no more questions to ask the witnesses and no more clarifications to demand. The courtroom was too silent with them gone. Draco blinked watering eyes and felt Harry's arms clasp him strongly, as if he thought Draco might slump over at any moment.

"You look exhausted," Harry whispered tenderly into his ear. "I'm going to take you home and make love you to until you can't move."

Draco choked and tipped back his head to glare at Harry. "I'm not the one who had to tell them what it was like to lose my emotions and my freedom to think!" he said incredulously.

"But you had to testify against your own mother." Harry frowned, a troubled light sifting through the back of his eyes as he rubbed his knuckles comfortingly against Draco's cheek. "I think that's worse."

"I felt worse when I revealed my memories of my torture at Daphne's hands to the court," Draco said. "So you should feel worse now."

"That doesn't make any sense. I didn't suffer as long as you did."

"It was the public testifying that hurt more."

Harry shrugged ruefully. "Maybe I'm more used to it. Someone has always wanted to know what I was thinking, for years now." He smiled, and Draco supposed he was thinking of Skeeter's award-winning series of newspaper articles on the "Conspiracy Against Harry Potter." Skeeter had started with Diggory's fall in front of the Wizengamot and Lucius's speech, and gone on to reveal the names of the corrupt Aurors and exactly how many people in the Ministry had pushed for Diggory to get elected solely because he hated Harry Potter, and so did they. "At least their thoughts are generally in accord with mine right now."

"Listen to us," Draco murmured into Harry's ear. "We're competing to care for one another. Next moment everyone will think we were in Hufflepuff."

Harry laughed. Because he was looking at Draco, he didn't see what Draco did: that his mother had turned around in the chair to stare at them with eyes like an icy sea. One hand she had laid on the arm of the chair shook. She hated, Draco knew, to see her son make such a disgusting spectacle of himself. No one but children and Mudbloods showed so much _emotion _in public.

Keeping his stare locked with hers, Draco nuzzled Harry's neck and said in a clear voice, "But I still think I should be the one to make love to you."

Narcissa whipped around to face the front again, her face losing all animation, so she came to look like a glass doll. Draco was content. This was the moment she realized she had lost, just as Lucius had realized he had when the potion wore off and he stopped making his speech about what he would do with the Minister's position. And because his parents had framed the conflict between them in the terms of a war, she had to lose.

Draco felt a gentle murmur of loss, but he had lived without his parents' love or approval for two years before this. And his love for Harry, his growing friendship with Granger—all right, _Hermione_, he thought as her scolding voice popped up in his head—and Millicent, and even the few times he'd received invitations to the Weasleys' house for dinner provided him with the affection he needed.

The Wizengamot came marching back into the courtroom a few minutes later and announced that Narcissa Malfoy was sentenced to six months in Azkaban and to monitoring for two years after that, subject to return to Azkaban if she used any Dark magic in that time.

Narcissa didn't react in any way, of course. With his arm around Harry, who flinched and moved and breathed and laughed like a human being instead of a doll, Draco hoped that whatever that motionless pose earned for her was worth it.

Then he took Harry home and made love to him. Touch Harry in a certain way on the arse and he begged to have Draco inside him every bit as prettily as Draco begged for Harry to do it to him.

Draco was glad they were such good matches for each other.

* * *

Harry paused for long moments at the door of Hermione's flat. Then he told himself he was being an arsehole and stupid to boot, and knocked firmly.

A shuffling motion came from inside. Harry waited tensely, trying to reckon Hermione's emotional state from the way she moved. Did she stumble? Did she walk stiffly, as if she had spent a long night awake and crying? Did she pause on the way to the door, as if she needed courage to face whoever was there?

But then she opened the door, and Harry found himself gazing into a pale, drained, but calm face.

He hugged her before he knew what he was doing.

"It worked, didn't it?" he murmured into her ear. "You got off the Desire potion and—and the depression didn't come back." Those words were so much less eloquent than the ones he had planned, but most of the ones he had planned had come from his fear that Hermione would lose the will to live again when the potion was gone.

"No," Hermione said in a tiny voice, clinging to his neck. "It didn't. Harry, I don't know how I can thank you for what you did for me. Going for Malfoy—"

"Draco," Harry corrected, drawing back and frowning at her. "If he has to call you by your first name, you have to call him by his."

Hermione went on without deigning to notice this, though a faint smile touched her lips. "Brewing the Desire potion for me, taking care of me until it was ready, and—" She took a deep breath and shook her head, then said, "Giving me enemies to fight." Harry had the distinct impression that those weren't the first words she had meant to speak.

"You're my friend," Harry said, baffled. "What else should I have done?"

Hermione smiled at him, but her eyes were shadowed. "I still miss him, you know."

Harry took her hand. "We always will," he said softly. Now that the rush of trying to survive Diggory's attacks and avoid Azkaban was over, he found himself turning more frequently to tell a joke to Ron and suffering a little jolt when he found his best friend wasn't there, or thinking that Ron would be amused by Draco's latest antics and then realizing he would never get the chance to tell him. "No one who shared experiences like he did with us can ever be replaced."

"But it's all right to live," Hermione whispered. "It's all right to go on."

Harry nodded. "Draco isn't a replacement for Ron, any more than he is for Ginny. This is new."

"That's right." Hermione nodded several times and then fiddled with the collar of her robe, which she normally never did unless she was nervous.

"Hermione?" Harry asked. "Is something wrong?"

The door to Hermione's bedroom opened and Millicent leaned out. "Oh, is he here?" she asked. "Tell him that I have two more prominent patrons who want to buy Desire but don't want to come into the shop publicly. He'll find the names on that parchment next to the window." She shut the door firmly and yelled the next words through it. "And now tell him to go away, because I need some _sleep _after last night!"

Harry blinked at Hermione. She was blushing, but Harry didn't see why. She had known that coming off the Desire potion would be difficult, and if she had let Millicent remain with her in the first place, she _had _to have known that Millicent would see her tears and suddenly released emotions.

"Is something wrong?" he repeated.

"Nothing, nothing," Hermione said hastily. She grabbed the parchment, stuffed it into his hand, and pushed him towards the door. "Millicent is right, she really needs some sleep. She's tired. So am I. You must have noticed how tired I look?" She quickly let loose a yawn, and then several more, which she must have been suppressing.

"Of course," Harry said. "And I wouldn't have come over, except that I just wanted to see how you were—"

"Fine, fine," Hermione said hurriedly. "I appreciate your coming over. What else would a friend do? But I'm really tired now. Thanks, Harry. Goodbye!"

She shut the door of the flat behind him. Harry stared at it, baffled. He was sure something specific was bothering Hermione, but he had no idea what it was.

When he went home and told Draco, Draco laughed so hard he fell out of his chair, then fell over again when he tried to get back up. But he wouldn't tell Harry what he thought the matter was, saying only that Hermione would have to tell him herself in good time.

That irritated Harry. "I know you're not exactly best friends with Hermione yet, but I thought you would be more concerned about her than this," he said.

Draco snorted into his cauldron and ruined an expensive potion, which gave them both something else to think about.

* * *

"I do hope you're satisfied," one of the waiting customers muttered as Draco strode into his shop. "I've been waiting here two hours."

"Is it my fault that you can't remember I never open before ten?" Draco asked mildly as he gestured the wizards and witches outside the door towards the counter in the middle of the shop. The inside of this new building was beginning to look nearly as organized and comfortable as his old shop in Diagon Alley had. Cauldrons were stacked neatly along the far wall, beside empty vials, new corks, and unused stirring rods. Beside them were the barrels of less expensive ingredients, like beetle eyes and bat tongues. In locked cabinets behind Draco's counter were the stocks of brewed potions, including Desire, and the more expensive ingredients such as bicorn horn. Of course, he couldn't watch every single one of them at all times when he was also dealing with customers, but cameras of Harry's devising kept careful watch and snapped a picture of every single wizard who ventured near the cabinets. The same cameras bore an alarm spell that would shrill unless the wizards they photographed went up to the counter and paid for what they might have taken. Draco had had no thefts so far. The brewing area was at the very back of the shop, shut away from the rest by a carved and painted screen. Draco turned around and smiled at the man who had complained, and now stood at the front of the queue. "I don't have to open earlier than that if I don't want to."

The man, who had a thin face and a big belly, scowled, but said, "Two vials of Desire, please."

As Draco bent down to pick up the vials, he tapped his wand against a corner of the counter that trigged a special eavesdropping ward. It let him listen to what the customers further back in the queue, nearer the door, were saying, and this morning they were muttering to one another so excitedly that he wanted to hear.

"—Shacklebolt was elected by an overwhelming margin, they say."

"Well, of course." A sniff. "Diggory was the only viable candidate for challenging him, and look at what he did to himself."

"But they said Shacklebolt had vowed to instigate sweeping reforms in the Wizengamot, and he was _still _re-elected—"

Draco smiled and let his attention to the ward lapse for now. He wanted to concentrate on handing over the Desire vials to the big-bellied wizard just slowly enough to be annoying. The man's hand twitched, as though he wanted to snatch the potion away, but he kept it still. He had doubtless heard about what happened to those who pushed or hurried Draco.

Abruptly, the air around Draco heated, and a flash of green flames exploded past his face, snapping at the counter. His customer jumped back. Draco quelled the small fires with a swish of his wand and looked over his shoulder. Sure enough, the explosion had occurred behind the screen that protected the brewing station from the rest of the shop. "All right there, Harry?" he called.

Harry hurried out towards him, his face covered with soot and his eyes brilliant with excitement. "I isolated the difference between—" he began, and then, seeing Draco wasn't alone, he changed the words to, "I analyzed that difference we talked about."

Draco grinned in delight. The techniques for brewing Desire that would work with anyone and for brewing a variant potion attuned to a particular person had remained substantially different, because to brew the attuned potion required intimate knowledge of the person in question and extremes of magic that sometimes even Harry couldn't manage. If Harry really had discovered the source of that difference, then he and Draco might be able to brew attuned potions for anyone at all, with only basic information in their possession.

And that would increase the already great profits of the shop—now that Desire was legal and regarded as a "normal" potion by a large portion of the wizarding public—to an absurd amount. Draco approved of absurdity when it was connected to amounts of money.

He stepped up to Harry, swabbed away the soot around his mouth, and then kissed him on the lips. Harry kissed back eagerly, though he made no move to touch Draco. _He _had learned the lesson that no one was to mess up Draco Malfoy's robes in the middle of a work day.

"We'll make a brewer of you yet," Draco murmured to him. "Now, go back there and figure out how to analyze that difference without causing an explosion."

"The explosion was _supposed _to happen," Harry said, looking affronted.

Draco raised an eyebrow. "Even if that's true, I want you to find a more elegant method of achieving the same thing."

"Why?"

Draco lifted his head haughtily. "Because I want it."

And Harry nodded and turned his back, walking obediently behind the screen again.

Because Draco wanted him to.

Draco closed his eyes for a moment. He had triumphed over his enemies. He had his career back again. He had received a letter the other day that indicated his father might be thinking about possibly, at some distant time in the future, meeting with him in a fashion that might start to lead to a reconciliation.

And he had a man who challenged him, loved him greatly, and was becoming steadily better at potions.

Life wasn't perfect, but it was damn close.

**The End.**


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